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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233390">Reichenbach Falls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeeTheRee/pseuds/VeeTheRee'>VeeTheRee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reichenbach Falls [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who, Gravity Falls, Queen (Band), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adler-Holmes Siblings, Alex Hirsch is bonkers like me hello Mr Hirsh how are you, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Awesome Irene Adler, BAMF John Watson, Bisexual John, Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV) References, Canadian John Watson, Case Fic, Deja Vu, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Evil Nicolas Cage, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, French Canadian!Greg, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Ghoul Freddie Mercury, Gravity Falls AU, Hamilton References, Homestuck References, Idiots in Love, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing in the Rain, Lesbian Irene Adler, M/M, Magic Mirrors, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, Multiple Crossovers, Multiple Pairings, Musical References, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Mystery Shack, Mystery journal, POV Greg Lestrade, POV Irene Adler, POV John Watson, POV Mary Morstan, POV Sherlock Holmes, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Pets, Reichenbach Falls, Sally Donovan &amp; Greg Lestrade Friendship, Secret Messages, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Solving Mysteries, Summer Romance, Superwholock, Tags to be added, Talking Animals, The M Conspiracy, Unilock, Villain Mary, everyone is kinda BAMF, everyone ships Johnlock, grunkle!Greg, nothing personal Mr Cage, papa lestrade, you're just a meme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:34:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>269,027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233390</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeeTheRee/pseuds/VeeTheRee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach Falls are a very peculiar town. It’s a home to many strange creatures, pixies, demons, weeping angels, and for some reason a vicious spirit of an impostor Nicolas Cage that has a tendency to show up like a sore mould. Sherlock, John, and Irene start uncovering conspiracies over the summer as they visit John’s grunkle Greg, a French Canadian conman who rules the Mystery Shack. Along the way they meet Sam and Dean, two hunters, and their angel friend Castiel, but that’s not the end of it. The Doctor and his companion take interest in Reichenbach Falls and its odd properties and fauna and flora, and they pop in and out unpredictably as TARDIS allows.<br/>But there is danger lying below, above, and everywhere: the ancient Chaos, unchained ever since Light and Darkness became unbalanced, what with Darkness being locked away.<br/>These are the SuperWhoLock voyages to save the world, because Chuck knows the world needs it, but it is not only that. There’s friendships acquired, love declared, traumas dealt with, and mayhem caused.<br/>The Game is on.</p><p>DISCLAIMER - you needn't have watched Gravity Falls to understand or read this fanfiction, even though it is its AU, or SPN or DW, just enjoy the mashup~ Read ToC</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Angelo/Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock), Greg Lestrade &amp; John Watson, Irene Adler &amp; John Watson, Irene Adler &amp; Sherlock Holmes, John Watson &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Mary Morstan &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes &amp; Dean Winchester, Sherlock Holmes &amp; Sam Winchester, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, yeah uh there's more ships coming just so ya know</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reichenbach Falls [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Table of Contents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuoshNell/gifts">TuoshNell</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Table of Contents and Additional Information About the Fic</strong>
</p><p>Hi! I added this preamble of sorts to explain how this fic works. It is not just 1 fic, it’s 3 in 1! Like my instant coffee. </p><p>So you see, this started out as a three-part series, but the more I look at it, it should be compiled together. Think the Hunger Games trilogy compiled into one book. Yep. That’s what this fic will be like. </p><p>This fic is divided into 3 seasons. Season 1 is currently being published, and has 100 chapters. Season 2 has roughly 110 chapters, and the third is around 90, give or take, that’s too far to be known for sure yet. </p><p>What I’m getting at is -- once Season 1 is all done, it can be read as a standalone. Even the ‘episodes’ in which I publish chapters can be read as their standalones. In this table of contents, I will add each episode with a short description so that in case anyone interested in a particular thing that catches their eye can jump there without having to necessarily bite through thousands of other words if the rest doesn’t interest you as much ;)</p><p>Season 1 has 20 episodes, each consisting of 5 chapters. </p><p>Each season will be clearly marked where it starts so that it will be visible in the chapter index for easier navigation later on. Also, there will be loads more content with Sam and Dean that you’d think there would be… And other things I haven’t tagged yet to keep anyone reading as I post on their toes! Moreover, those who are primarily in the Sherlock fandom don't have to worry if they don't know either SPN or DW, I will write it in such a way that you get to know these as though from a beginning, so as not to make it overwhelming. And those who don't know Sherlock, well, you'll get to know them from the beginning of the fic :) Writing SuperWhoLock is a challenge which I want to do properly, so let's take it one step at a time.</p><p>This fic will be huge, I am not gonna lie. But that’s what makes it fun and exciting. Feel free to join the ride!</p><p>Each episode will have the 1st chapter linked in it’s underlined name. ToC will be updated once a whole episode is posted.</p><p>Fanart that you will see has so far been done by my best friend Bee, you can find her on her blog <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee.</a></p><p>
  <strong>Season 1 - Déjà vu</strong>
</p><p><strong>Summary</strong><br/>
Two Canadians, two Brits studying in Canada, and an upkeeper walk into a Mystery Shack… and live there.<br/>
Summer holidays are here, and the step-siblings, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes, find themselves in a boring town called Reichenbach Falls, Oregon, USA.<br/>
It isn’t as boring as it seems, however, once Sherlock stumbles upon a mystery journal, and the author is unknown. The journal contains ciphers, a strange colour wheel, and information about magical creatures that are said to be looming in the Northwestern forests.<br/>
With mysteries to solve in hand, he and Irene set out to get to the roots of the town, and the abrupt disappearance of the author of the journal. But they’re not alone - John Watson, quite the handsome nephew of the Mystery Shack owner Greg Lestrade, is on their side to help out, plus mess with Sherlock’s feelings, in a good way. Shenanigans, romance, fun, danger, and deductions ensue in the wake of a mysterious M club on the rise for which Mary Morstan and Sebastian Moran work.<br/>
Oh, and there’s an angel and two dorky Winchester brothers along with a blue police box and Doctor and his companion Donna to add to the ̸̲͓̰͙̿̓i̸̥̗̾̕n̴̜̙̺̎̐s̵̰̮̱̹̔̈̈́a̵̢̺͈̬͌̈̓͋̾ņ̶͖̫̽̈́́͛͝i̵̗̮͛͘͘͝ţ̶͉̲̔͐ỳ̴̛͖͖̤̹ͅ.̷̧̞͖̖̀̿</p><p><a href="#section0004">Episode 1 - Pixie Cut</a><br/>
Sherlock and Irene arrive at Reichenbach Falls to spend the holidays at their mom’s  family friend’s house -- the Mystery Shack. Ran by a notorious smoker and a professional conman, they settle in, and soon John Watson arrives, too. There’s a mystery journal, a goth girl, spark of a new connection, and summer. The beginning. </p><p><a href="#section0009">Episode 2 - Gloria Scott </a><br/>
Greg takes the boys out fishing, where they meet the Winchester brothers investigating a suspicious ghost activity -- consider John and Sherlock intrigued. Greg loses his fishing permit, Mrs Hudson finds it, and he loses it again to a racoon. Irene takes the matter into her own capable hands. <strong>SuperLock gets started.</strong></p><p><a href="#section0014">Episode 3 - A Study in Clues </a><br/>
John found old dolls, and it sparks up Mrs Hudson’s need to knit again. But someone murder’s her doll! Sherlock’s first ever homicide behind closed doors. Crushes are definite.</p><p><a href="#section0019">Episode 4 - AGRA (Absolutely Gorgeous Reichenbach Angel)</a><br/>
Agra is back in town, fabulous as ever! She -- or rather, Mary -- sends John an invitation, but two years after they broke up? Irene is suspicious. Sherlock is insecure. John is a bisexual disaster.</p><p><a href="#section0024">Episode 5 - A Nightmare at the Opera</a><br/>
Kate and her group of friends take John, Irene, and Sherlock out to investigate the allegedly haunted theatre across town. Supposedly, vampires live there. Or do they? John takes his chance and asks an important question. Also there’s Freddie Mercury.</p><p><a href="#section0029">Episode 6 - A Boxed Match</a><br/>
Sherlock is elated, but he is restless. He goes out to the mall, where a badass called Anthea provides boxing training. He may join a competition eventually, too, who knows? In the meantime, Irene helps Mrs Hudson get a date. It’s matchmaking time! On the other hand, Sherlock is a little insecure whether John really is interested in him enough to go on a date with him, because… no one ever did, why should this be any different?</p><p><a href="#section0034">Episode 7 - Minor Reflections </a><br/>
Kate pleaded her right to throw a party at the Shack. John thinks it fits, Sherlock talks to a mirror, and Irene snatches a couple wigs in the process. The party is wild, and there’s rain. Lots of it. And smooches.</p><p><a href="#section0039">Episode 8 - National Treasure-Trove </a><br/>
One day after the party, Sherlock and John are the happiest they could be. Greg, however, needs a new TV. He gets arrested in the process, and Sherlock has the opportunity to show off his deduction game to Sally Donovan while Greg cools off in county jail. In the meantime, Irene and John get sidetracked to uncover the O’Leary’s family dirty secrets, but find much more than they bargained for…</p><p><a href="#section0044">Episode 9 - Irene Had a Little Lamp</a><br/>
The M Club demands fruits of labor, and Mary is competitive enough to do as asked. She has no other option. Irene and Kate have height complexes, and Greg is fed up by the subtle offers the M Club sends his way. Neither the Boss nor Mary are amused, and Irene and Kate get on a trail of something big.</p><p><a href="#section0049">Episode 10 - Operation: REDBEARD</a><br/>There’s a funfair in town. Irene and Sherlock get to experience it while John has to help Mrs Hudson and Greg at home depot. Sherlock makes new friends, two dogs he names Grace and Redbeard. Irene meets a very peculiar man called the Doctor, and his companion Donna Noble. <strong>WhoLock.</strong></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Season 1 - Déjà vu</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Table of Contents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Table of Contents and Additional Information About the Fic</strong>
</p><p>Hi! I added this preamble of sorts to explain how this fic works. It is not just 1 fic, it’s 3 in 1! Like my instant coffee. </p><p>So you see, this started out as a three-part series, but the more I look at it, it should be compiled together. Think the Hunger Games trilogy compiled into one book. Yep. That’s what this fic will be like. </p><p>This fic is divided into 3 seasons. Season 1 is currently being published, and has 100 chapters. Season 2 has roughly 110 chapters, and the third is around 90, give or take, that’s too far to be known for sure yet. </p><p>What I’m getting at is -- once Season 1 is all done, it can be read as a standalone. Even the ‘episodes’ in which I publish chapters can be read as their standalones. In this table of contents, I will add each episode with a short description so that in case anyone interested in a particular thing that catches their eye can jump there without having to necessarily bite through thousands of other words if the rest doesn’t interest you as much ;)</p><p>Season 1 has 20 episodes, each consisting of 5 chapters. </p><p>Each season will be clearly marked where it starts so that it will be visible in the chapter index for easier navigation later on. Also, there will be loads more content with Sam and Dean that you’d think there would be… And other things I haven’t tagged yet to keep anyone reading as I post on their toes! Moreover, those who are primarily in the Sherlock fandom don't have to worry if they don't know either SPN or DW, I will write it in such a way that you get to know these as though from a beginning, so as not to make it overwhelming. And those who don't know Sherlock, well, you'll get to know them from the beginning of the fic :) Writing SuperWhoLock is a challenge which I want to do properly, so let's take it one step at a time.</p><p>This fic will be huge, I am not gonna lie. But that’s what makes it fun and exciting. Feel free to join the ride!</p><p>Each episode will have the 1st chapter linked in it’s underlined name. ToC will be updated once a whole episode is posted.</p><p>Fanart that you will see has so far been done by my best friend Bee, you can find her on her blog <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee.</a></p><p>
  <strong>Season 1 - Déjà vu</strong>
</p><p><a href="#section0004">Episode 1 - Pixie Cut</a><br/>
Sherlock and Irene arrive at Reichenbach Falls to spend the holidays at their mom’s  family friend’s house -- the Mystery Shack. Ran by a notorious smoker and a professional conman, they settle in, and soon John Watson arrives, too. There’s a mystery journal, a goth girl, spark of a new connection, and summer. The beginning. </p><p><a href="#section0009">Episode 2 - Gloria Scott </a><br/>
Greg takes the boys out fishing, where they meet the Winchester brothers investigating a suspicious ghost activity -- consider John and Sherlock intrigued. Greg loses his fishing permit, Mrs Hudson finds it, and he loses it again to a racoon. Irene takes the matter into her own capable hands. SuperLock gets started. </p><p><a href="#section0014">Episode 3 - A Study in Clues </a><br/>
John found old dolls, and it sparks up Mrs Hudson’s need to knit again. But someone murder’s her doll! Sherlock’s first ever homicide behind closed doors. Crushes are definite.</p><p><a href="#section0019">Episode 4 - AGRA (Absolutely Gorgeous Reichenbach Angel)</a><br/>
Agra is back in town, fabulous as ever! She -- or rather, Mary -- sends John an invitation, but two years after they broke up? Irene is suspicious. Sherlock is insecure. John is a bisexual disaster.</p><p><a href="#section0024">Episode 5 - A Nightmare at the Opera</a><br/>
Kate and her group of friends take John, Irene, and Sherlock out to investigate the allegedly haunted theatre across town. Supposedly, vampires live there. Or do they? John takes his chance and asks an important question. Also there’s Freddie Mercury.</p><p><a href="#section0029">Episode 6 - A Boxed Match</a><br/>
Sherlock is elated, but he is restless. He goes out to the mall, where a badass called Anthea provides boxing training. He may join a competition eventually, too, who knows? In the meantime, Irene helps Mrs Hudson get a date. It’s matchmaking time! On the other hand, Sherlock is a little insecure whether John really is interested in him enough to go on a date with him, because… no one ever did, why should this be any different?</p><p><a href="#section0034">Episode 7 - Minor Reflections </a><br/>
Kate pleaded her right to throw a party at the Shack. John thinks it fits, Sherlock talks to a mirror, and Irene snatches a couple wigs in the process. The party is wild, and there’s rain. Lots of it. And smooches.</p><p><a href="#section0039">Episode 8 - National Treasure-Trove </a><br/>
One day after the party, Sherlock and John are the happiest they could be. Greg, however, needs a new TV. He gets arrested, though, and Sherlock has the opportunity to show off his deduction game to Sally Donovan while Greg cools off in county jail. In the meantime, Irene and John get sidetracked to uncover the O’Leary’s family dirty secrets, but find much more than they bargained for…</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Pixie Cut I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which summer begins</p><p>episode 1, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to my friends Bee and Dee, who beta read it for me and listened to my ideas for the fic. And thank you to everyone who reads this!<br/>PS: I'm not a native English speaker, so I apologise for any mistake you may find - feel free to britpick Sherlock and Irene as well!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Ah…. Summer holidays. The time of year when people relax, chill, get a tan, eat ice cream…. Unless you’re us.”</em>
</p><p>The golf cart tore through the sheet of the giant billboard overseeing a familiar road connecting to Reichenbach Falls’ Main Street, miraculously landing on the dust road off-side of the asphalt street to Sherlock’s, John’s, and Irene’s luck. Screaming, they swerved to the left, then to the right, and then, finally getting control over the whimsy vehicle, they drove over a bump sending them to hit their heads on the roof of the golf cart. Somewhere behind, the trees shook, some falling to the ground, others disintegrated into splinters by the sheer strength of their persecutor, malicious buzzing of something big echoing closer and closer. </p><p>Irene looked over her shoulder, her neat ponytail a mess, her hair blowing into every direction as the speed-evoken breeze hit their faces in this hot summer afternoon. “It’s getting closer!” she yelled so that they could hear her. </p><p>John, who was driving, hit the gas as much as the golf cart allowed him, eyes focused on the road ahead. He nervously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, desperately wanting to get out of there with his two other passengers. </p><p>The loud buzzing behind them grew louder with every meter they passed, and soon an enormous shadow embalmed them, a chilling shield from the sun. They shivered, and yelled once more as John hit a rock that caused the cart to bump up and Sherlock hit his head again. There was a <em>swoosh </em>sound, and Sherlock risked a glance over his shoulder. The giant mass of <em>whatever-the-hell-that-was</em> had almost caught them. He swallowed a gasp and turned his head forward, trying his damn hardest to remain seated.</p><p>The golf cart rode over a small rift in the ground, sending them swerving again. They did a three-sixty before John managed to gain control over the cursed vehicle again. </p><p>
  <em>“My name is John Watson, and today I’ve experienced the weirdest day in my life. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler were with me, well - I guess it was mainly due to them that I got to drive a golf cart across the Falls at top speed (which is shit speed). You’re probably wondering what we were doing in a golf cart, fleeing from a creature even the Avengers fear, well….”</em>
</p><p>“ON YOUR LEFT!” Irene shouted, and Sherlock and John registered something brown-red and pointy, falling over and almost on the cart. It was a tall pine tree. The tree landed in front of them, blocking their way and rousing a whirlwind of dust that made them all cough. </p><p>John swore out loud this time. He blinked through the dust in his watery eyes, his knuckles white from how firmly he held onto the steering wheel. The pine tree rolled for a few meters before stopping dead in its tracks. </p><p>“Here, let me!” Sherlock said, taking the wheel despite John’s and Irene’s protests. </p><p>“HOLMES ARE YOU KIDDING ME!” Irene shrieked, holding onto the frame like her life depended on it. “IF WE END UP DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU, I’LL KILL YOU!”</p><p>Sherlock swerved them to the right where he noticed a small and narrow dirt road, wide enough for the golf cart to drive on. He hit the gas with his left foot and navigated them right towards the forest. The breeze grew colder once the cart made another short jump down onto the dirt path, their screams scaring away the local wildlife. </p><p>
  <em>“Rest assured, as Sherlock would say, there’s a perfectly logical explanation. Because ‘once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, must be the truth.’ I’ll walk you through from the beginning.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span class="u">July 1st</span>
  </em>
</p><p>It all began when this summer, the Adler-Holmes parents decided to take a trip around the world. Not wanting their children to spend the holidays alone in London, they arranged with their old family friend for them to stay with him for the two months. Mummy Holmes was especially worried about her son, Sherlock, who had the tendency to lock himself away in his room to either sulk or experiment. Pfft, as if he needed any other interaction save for the family dinners and family time spent over tabletop games. </p><p>“Oh, at least you won’t have to spend time crammed up in a plane over the Atlantic,” Mummy had said over the phone a month ago. “After all, Toronto is closer to Oregon than London.”</p><p>“But I grew up in London!” Sherlock had protested, putting one leg over the other where he was sitting in his dorm room. “We’re nineteen, Mummy. We can take care of ourselves.”</p><p>Mummy had let out a sigh, a hint of sadness behind it. “Nineteen…. I know. But you need more sun, you’re ghostly pale, dear. Oregon is a nice place -”</p><p>“How come? It’s… it’s just forests, and mosquitoes, and fake sasquatch reports!”</p><p>“Greg has a Mystery Shack,” Mummy had said in hopes that would get Sherlock’s attention. Wrong. This ‘Mystery Shack’ was barely mysterious when it had to state such a thing. He had groaned into the phone, folding himself down on the bed. “Oh, Sherlock, stop sulking! Dad and I need a getaway this year, and you should go out and meet new people too.”</p><p>“I don’t need to meet anyone, I have experiments to conduct.”</p><p>“Hm. Well, Greg has a nephew…”</p><p>“No. Don’t even start.”</p><p>“He’s also studying in Toronto, you know,” Mummy had said, and he could hear the smile that was threatening to break out on the other side of the line. “Maybe you’ll become friends and then you can study together sometimes.”</p><p>Sherlock had closed his eyes, one hand rubbing his face. “Mum….”</p><p>“Just give them a chance, dear,” she had said. “They’re very nice people, the lot of them. Dad and I will stop by at the end of summer, hopefully. I think we should be done with our travels by then.”</p><p>“I never knew you wanted to take such a trip,” Sherlock had mumbled, without accusation. It was just that Mummy seemed like the comfortable type, and a sudden trip around the world was a bit surprising. </p><p>“Needs must,” she had laughed. Sherlock smiled; her laugh was always warm and happy, curing any homesickness he could have been experiencing. “It’s the age, you know. We’ve got to keep ourselves entertained, and trash telly won’t cut it.”</p><p>“So you’re going to watch trash telly in foreign countries?”</p><p>“Precisely. Don’t be angry, Sherlock. I know you will have fun.”</p><p>“I’m not angry,” Sherlock had assured her, feeling a pang of guilt. He was more frustrated than anything. He had plans to expand his homemade laboratory, but alas. “Just… Fine. We’ll go. I assume you talked with Irene?”</p><p>“Oh, she’s excited,” Mummy had said happily, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course, his easy-to-amuse step-sister was always in for the ride. “Do watch out for each other, will you?”</p><p>“Yes, Mummy.”</p><p>And so, they flew to Oregon on the first of July, right as the holidays started. </p><p>Once they landed, they took a bus that would drive them to the small town where this ‘family friend’ lived. He was quite young, in his thirties, apparently. Sherlock only remembered his last name and he didn’t care to actually remember the whole of it. Why bother? They’re only stuck here for two months. Then he will say bye-bye to this forgotten corner of the world for good. </p><p>“Still sulking?” Irene probed three hours into the long bus drive. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. He expected her to keep quiet for about two hours. Seems like her music repertoire was enhanced by a new selection of radio pop music. </p><p>He watched her from the corner of his eye as she put her headphones into her hoodie pocket. It looked atrocious. The hoodie was <em>fuzzy</em>, and the colours she combined with her hot-pink shorts made him long for an aneurysm. Fashion students never ceased to amaze him with their styles of clothing. He could forgive it were she stupid like people usually were, but she was one of the few that actually parred with him on the intelligence level. She was still annoying, though. </p><p>“Define ‘sulking’,” Sherlock said, turning to face the narrow bus corridor. An over-indulgent passenger next to them spread himself over the seat, munching on doughnuts. And he wanted for Americans so badly to prove him wrong about the stereotypes. </p><p>“Okay,” Irene said, and he could hear her smirk. “Sulking: a state of one particular Sherlock Holmes when he has to spend time away from his silly experiments.”</p><p>“They’re not silly!” he glared at her, crossing his arms. “They’re essential and engaging, unlike your Friday dates and hookups.”</p><p>“I engage just fine on such Friday nights, thank you very much,” she grinned and turned her body on the seat so that she could face him. She sat on her legs, leaving dusty footprints on the fabric. “At least my <em>hookups </em>talk back.”</p><p>“I don’t see the relevance of this conversation,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Nor do I see how our parents thought this would change anything. I can - <em>will </em>- lock myself in whatever room this <em>friend </em>of theirs gives us to sleep in. And I’ll sulk there for the rest of summer if I can.”</p><p>“Aha! So you admit you do sulk.”</p><p>Sherlock flipped her off and Irene laughed. </p><p>“C’mon,” she poked him with a finger. He rubbed the sore spot, glaring at her for such an intrusion of his personal space. “I’m just trying to lighten up the mood. I don’t like spending time away from London and the parties either. But this may be a new adventure! For example, I'll let my thirteen-year-old self that I repressed finally out and be crazy and not the London girl you knew for most of your life. Think of it that way. And they are concerned.”</p><p>“Who?” Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he focused on the road. It was a strange feeling, driving on the right, even as a passenger. But he got used to it, commuting in Toronto for the past two years.</p><p>“Our parents,” Irene said. She scratched her nose. “They would like you to have at least one friend, you know? Someone who would make you leave that cluttered bedroom of yours.”</p><p>“It’s not cluttered, or messy, it’s an organised chaos,” Sherlock said defensively. These people, honestly! He was a man of science, and science was an organised chaos, just like his mind. He found comfort in his room, it was a sanctuary when everything became unbearable. Same went for his dormitory room. </p><p>“See, I wouldn’t have a problem with it, it’s just that Mummy thinks you’re too lonely. And you are, sometimes. After what happened with Trev-”</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>Irene closed her mouth, but she didn’t take her eyes off her step-brother. </p><p>“Look, it doesn’t have to be half as bad,” she said, glancing at the forest bordering the highway. “Maybe you’ll even find the love of your life or have a summer romance.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him and he couldn’t help but snort, then laugh. </p><p>“Sure, after you woo a mermaid, maybe,” Sherlock said mockingly, but that didn’t put Irene off. “It is unlikely I will become so easily infatuated with someone. I don’t need it, neither do I want it.”</p><p>Irene sighed and nodded. “You have a point. People can be such idiots sometimes,” she rubbed her temples rather dramatically, which made Sherlock smile. </p><p>“They are, aren’t they?” He nudged her in the ribs good-naturedly. As much as he hated to admit it, she was probably the only person who could make him relax and calm down. Not that he would ever voice it. There was no need for that, Irene was vain as a peacock (and him too, occasionally) and there was no need to add fuel to her ego. </p><p>Companionable silence settled between them, and Sherlock dozed off about half an hour later while Irene stared out of the rattling grimy bus windows. Sherlock woke up at two in the afternoon when Irene not-so-gently kicked him in the shins announcing their arrival. </p><p>No other passengers were in the bus except for the driver, a forty-something man with beer belly and sweaty armpits the siblings could smell even in the far back of the vehicle. A feeble voice on the intercom repeated the name of the final stop and asked any lingering people to leave via the nearest exit. </p><p>Irene and Sherlock obliged under the driver’s scrutinous look. They gathered their luggage and backpacks and stepped into the warm, Oregon air. Sherlock hated to admit it, but the air <em>was</em> nicer and fresher than in London and Toronto, and he didn’t mind breathing it in, letting it fill his lungs to the fullest. </p><p>The bus rattled itself to an empty parking lot nearby closed off by a metal fence. Everything was peaceful. And boring. Well, to Sherlock. Irene seemed to enjoy the serene view. </p><p>“It’s so quiet in here,” she said, grazing the otherwise abandoned street. Where was everyone? </p><p>“Dull,” Sherlock said, leaning against his luggage. “Didn’t that guy say he will come pick us up? Mummy said he was reliable.”</p><p>Irene shrugged. She put on her sunglasses and tied her long brown hair in a ponytail. “Maybe his shop got busy. Or he’s just an arse.”</p><p>“Neither is ideal.”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>“Don’t you have his number? Or email?” Sherlock asked, pulling off his own hoodie. Irene didn’t seem to be affected by the heat the road radiated. </p><p>Irene giggled. “Email? What year are we in? Twenty-ten?” She whipped up her smartphone and searched her messages. “Aha! Got it. Jeez, we have to make Mom download Messenger, it’s faster than her emails. Hm, yeah. I guess she is still stuck in the past.”</p><p>“Just dial the number already,” Sherlock groaned and stepped aside under a thin shade from a tall lamppost behind them. </p><p>Irene held her phone next to her ear and waited. Sherlock heard the dialing beeps even from a two meter distance. She gave him a patient look at which he rolled his eyes. He wanted to be inside already, his fair complexion would suffer from too much sun exposure. Ah, the perks of being born British. </p><p>“Oh, hello? Greg Lestrade?” Irene shifted her weight from one foot to another. “It’s Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes, kids of Millie Holmes. Yeah. Yeah, the final stop…. Ah, alright, good to know, thanks. See you there!”</p><p>She cancelled the call and put her phone into her hoodie pocket, surely next to her now entangled headphones. “Well?” Sherlock asked when she didn’t say anything. </p><p>“Oh, he said his employee is going to pick us up, a nice lady, apparently,” she said, kicking her backpack. “She should be here any minute, Lestrade said. They weren’t sure exactly when the bus would have arrived. It either comes too early or too late.”</p><p>“Great, so we will be surrounded by dust and death and boredom.”</p><p>“Hey! Remember what we promised?”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes again as he repeated his promise to Mummy, “No being rude to people you’ve just met that may be dull….”</p><p>“.... but are polite to you,” Irene finished with him. She looked satisfied. “Listen, we know people are idiots, but there’s no need to call them out on their stupidity without cause.”</p><p>“And if they give me a cause?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a sly smile.</p><p>Irene smiled back just as ruefully. “Then I’ll join you and we can verbally end them together, naturally.”</p><p>“Deal.” He was glad to know that Irene had enough common sense to tell idiots apart. She also acted as his sort-of-bent-moral-compass. Not always, she usually didn’t care who he insulted if he was irritated. Although, he wasn’t as snappy as he was a couple of years ago. No, he wasn’t that impulsive anymore, he <em>was </em>polite, and if not, he could hide behind a good mask and survive some insufferable people. Mummy still thought to remind him, though, as if he were still nine years old. </p><p>“Yoohoo!” a cheery voice called. The two siblings turned to watch a rusty red truck pull up next to them. The engine kept going and a lady in her mid-fifties (Sherlock assumed) opened the doors for them and motioned to come and sit. “You are Greg’s kids, is that right?” </p><p>“Mrs. Hudson?” Irene asked. </p><p>The lady nodded and smiled. “Throw the bags in the back and come up front.”</p><p>They did as told and Irene went into the car first, Sherlock right behind her, closing the doors the moment the car started moving forwards. Mrs. Hudson was a very chatty woman, and her British accent was unmistakable. She had curly brown hair tied in a loose bun, a warm smile, and overall a very motherly aura to her. There were crinkles around her mouth and eyes, and her hands were veiny, a few darker spots covering her light skin. And even though she was too chatty in Sherlock’s opinion, there was just something that made him like her.</p><p>“Oh, I would forget, here,” she handed them each a refrigerated bottle of water. “You must be thirsty, drink up. Summer only just started officially and it’s already too hot.”</p><p>Irene and Sherlock downed their water in a few, long gulps. “Thank you,” said Irene, smiling at Mrs. Hudson. “So, what do you do here? You probably aren’t American.”</p><p>“Dear, it’s always the accent that gives me away,” she winked at them. Then, turning to the road again, she said, “I take care of the Shack, plumbing, gardening, cleaning, that sort of stuff.”</p><p>“What? Isn’t that usually a man’s job?” Irene quirked an eyebrow. </p><p>“Usually, yes, but I am very versatile, I assure you. Besides, those are only a few of my skills, and it keeps me busy. Of course, sometimes my hips put up an act and I have to rest, but that’s nothing simple medication won’t solve. Plus, there’s always John to help. Greg’s great-great-great nephew thrice removed, or so I’ve heard. He spends the summers here, he’ll arrive tomorrow.”</p><p>Irene gave Sherlock an approving passing look and he nodded back. They both actually liked Mrs. Hudson. </p><p>“What are your other skills?” Sherlock asked suddenly, ignoring the mention of another occupant of the house he will have to share the premises with. A part of him squelched when he remembered that embarrassing conversation with Mummy regarding Lestrade’s nephew, however. God knew how Sherlock loathed the inevitable interaction already. Making ‘friends’ wasn’t really his forte.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson kept watching the road as they turned right from the Main Street. </p><p>“Oh, the usual,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Hunting, shooting, baking, canoeing, climbing, cooking, skinning animals efficiently, and knitting. Just the normal domestic work.”</p><p>Sherlock felt his lips curling into a genuine smile. Maybe this stay won’t be <em>that </em>dull after all. Irene seemed a little horrified, but she didn’t say anything to either doubt or disregard Mrs. Hudson.</p><p>“We’re here!” Mrs. Hudson announced and they pulled up in front of the shabbiest of shacks Sherlock could ever imagine. Well, if he squinted his eyes so that they were almost certainly shut, then it would pass as acceptable. </p><p>But.</p><p>This was just awful. </p><p>The house - if it could be called that - looked like tree splinters glued together with the addition of a sign that read: <strong>Mystery Shack</strong>, the ‘M’ tilted to one side, threatening to rip off. Next to the front porch was a tall flagpole, the Canadian flag waving in the faint breeze lazily. Ah, it was national Canada Day. Their host obviously held love for his country, that was a nice, sentimental touch.</p><p>“Hey, it’s not that bad as I thought it would be,” Irene said, observing it from the car. She was looking at the giant sign on top of the rooftop. She noticed he stared at her as though she were mental. “What? It’s Oregon, it’s America, it’s… it suits the atmosphere, there’s that. And… Doesn’t it seem a little familiar? It feels as though I’ve been to a similar place before.”</p><p>“Your brain is probably mixing up memories from those movies you used to watch as a kid,” Sherlock shrugged, though he did have a slight feeling of familiarity as well. Nothing spectacular, though. He’d remember if he ever were to such a dump prior to today.</p><p>“Yeah, maybe,” Irene nodded. She grabbed her luggage and tugged. “But hey, it’s the authentic American experience for free!”</p><p>And with those words she moved past him to leave for the outside, Mrs. Hudson doing the same. He heaved a sigh and followed. Despite their protests, Mrs. Hudson took their backpacks - fortunately the light ones - and led them inside. </p><p>From what Sherlock had seen, the Shack had a gift shop attached to one side of the house, and part of the ground floor was transformed into some wannabe museum with really strange exhibits. He’ll have to look there later, he was sure he saw a hand in a jar on a shelf in the room. </p><p>Mrs. Hudson led them upstairs, talking about how she and Greg - so, mostly her, but don’t tell Greg - renovated the Shack from the inside, though there was still a lot of work to be done on the outside. Sherlock couldn’t agree more. </p><p>“You two share a bedroom up in the attic,” Mrs. Hudson said, pointing at a corridor ahead of them where another set of stairs would take them to their bedsit. “There’s two rooms, but the other one is used for storage, so it’s easy to tell where you actually spend the night.”</p><p>She walked them to the stairs and put their backpacks down. “Sorry, it’s the hip again, you’ll have to take these up yourselves.”</p><p>“No worries, Mrs. Hudson,” Irene told her, stepping aside to allow the older woman to walk downstairs to get her medication. </p><p>“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson’s head appeared from behind a corner. “Do come down to the living room in about fifteen minutes, Greg should be done with his tour by then. He wants to show you around the Shack a little.”</p><p>“We’ll be there,” Sherlock said, already walking up the stairs and into their bedroom. He would prefer if he had his own, like in London, but there obviously wasn’t any room for negotiation. Thus he’ll suffer Irene’s indisposable presence. </p><p>Ten minutes later they were both unpacked, if by unpacked on Irene’s part means that her clothes covered half of the room like glitter. Jumpers, tank tops, shorts, jeans, dresses, and shoes of every colour covered the surface, and yet Irene did nothing to change it in spite of Sherlock scowling at her. Right now she was preoccupied with putting up posters from cheap teen magazines on her side of the attic roof which she found lying about God knows where. </p><p>In response, Sherlock hung up a colour-coded periodic table.</p><p>“Where the hell did you get that?” Irene asked, repulsed by a relic reminding her of school. </p><p>“I can ask you the same thing,” Sherlock deadpanned, eyeing her posters. It showed numerous bands and idols, none of which he recognised. Not that it troubled him. </p><p>He left for the living room. He stomped down, making quite the noise, but he didn’t think anyone would mind. If this is really a ‘mystery shack’, people needn’t complain about his loud footsteps that may be hypothetically interpreted as some ghost’s. In all frankness, he is helping the business grow already.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson was sitting in a yellow armchair, her hands folded in her lap. She was watching a soap opera Sherlock didn’t care to pay attention to. When she noticed him leaning on the doorframe, she turned the TV off and invited Sherlock to sit on the couch next to her. </p><p>As soon as he sat down Irene also arrived. She had a wondering look about her as she took the house, the furniture, and everything else in. </p><p>“Everything alright, dears?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking from one to the other.</p><p>“Yes, and I like it here!” Irene said excitedly. She put her hands up for them to see and laughed. “Check out all my splinters! Ouch. Shouldn’t have palmed the attic wall.”</p><p>Sherlock winced at the sight, but she only had two stuck in her palm. Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows slightly and blinked. That wasn’t the usual response to getting splinters. </p><p>“I guess you are too much of a city girl, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hudson sighed and told Irene to sit down while she got the right equipment to pull them safely out. “There, it should be fine now.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Irene said and scratched her palm where the splinters were seconds before. Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh when Mrs. Hudson rose to her feet and her eyebrows once more shot up her forehead. </p><p>“Try to stay here and not get any more splinters, will you? I’ll go and find Greg.”</p><p>Just as she left the living room, the man Sherlock guessed to be Mr. Lestrade came in from the other side of the room, carrying a can of soda. He acknowledged them with a nod as he stepped closer, and Sherlock observed him. </p><p>He was young, in his early thirties, but he already had grey hair infesting his temples, and he sported a messy stubble on his face which gave him a rather wild look. He downed the whole can and tossed it at the bin next to the TV before speaking. Sherlock noticed he stained his white shirt a little by drinking so fast.</p><p>“So you’re both Millie’s, huh?” he said, looking over them, amused but searching. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I’m Greg Lestrade, as you probably know, just call me Greg. Or Lestrade. Just none of that ‘Mister’ crap. Glad to have you here, by the way, the Shack’s been getting busier and busier every summer.”</p><p>“And what exactly is this Shack about?” Sherlock inquired. He rested his chin on his left fist propped up on the side of the couch. </p><p>“Sherlock, right? Yeah, so, the Shack’s been here for decades,” Greg explained, gesturing with his hands in circles for emphasis. “You see, these woods around us and the town itself are full of mystery, or so people say…” He went on a lecture about the apparent magical lore of the town, boring Sherlock to death. “Anyway… How old are you again? Can’t remember ages for shit. Shit, sorry. I swear a lot.”</p><p>“No matter,” Sherlock shrugged, arching one eyebrow. “Irene and I are nineteen. We study in Toronto.”</p><p>“Nineteen? You sure? Could’ve passed as a twenty-something guy to me,” Lestrade huffed a laugh, scratching the back of his neck while shooting a glance at his shoes. “Ah, you kids all trick us with your looks these days. Nothing wrong with that, mind you.”</p><p>“Pretty sure I know when I was born,” Sherlock deadpanned, and Lestrade laughed whole-heartedly. </p><p>“Of course. You’re one of the smart ones, aren’t you? My nephew will like you. Now, up you go, I’ll show you around.”</p><p>
  <em>
    <span class="u">July 2nd</span>
  </em>
</p><p>On this fateful day, their second day at the Mystery Shack, Irene could be found crouching behind a shelf displaying small figurines of Sascrotches, as Lestrade took to naming the lame creature resembling a giant hairy ape wearing a pair of slippers and a piece of white underwear. </p><p>Sherlock just came into the gift shop, shooting her a curious glance as he made his way to the cash register where Kate, Greg’s part-time employee, stood guard. Well, sitting with her feet put up on the counter was more an accurate description. He liked Kate. She did no harm, but took no shit. Kate was, in other words, a badass young woman, born in New Orleans. She worked for Lestrade during summers since she was fifteen. And now, three years later, she still kept coming to work, slacking off but getting paid all the same with minimum effort. </p><p>“What is she doing?” Sherlock whispered, leaning on the cash register and observing his step-sister from afar. She came up to a girl and chatted her up animatedly. </p><p>“Getting a date, I heard,” Kate said, refreshing her Instagram feed. She hearted a picture of a puppy biting on a bone-shaped treat. Sherlock looked up skeptically, but saw that Irene’s charms were somehow working. </p><p>“I think this slipped from your pocket,” Irene said suggestively, wiggling her neat eyebrows. The girl, perplexed by the attention of a seductive British woman dressed in shorts and a glittery tank top, took the note, unfolded it and read it. She looked up, eyes wide as saucers, and Kate sucked in a hiss. </p><p>“Uhm, sorry,” the girl stuttered, taking a hesitant step back, rounding Irene and shuffling to the exit. “I - I don’t like girls that way. Bye!” And off she went.</p><p>“I call bullshit,” Irene frowned, walking over to the register where Sherlock tried not to snicker, failing miserably. He yelped when she smacked him, glaring daggers. “My gaydar never fails me.”</p><p>“Apparently it did now,” Sherlock said, flicking a tiny globe atop a nearby shelf to spin in its frame. “Look, I know you’re in your girls-crazy phase, but aren’t you overdoing it with the dates? Not everything has to spin around ‘romance’, be rational.”</p><p>“‘Be rational’, pfft. Sherlock, this is our first summer properly away from home, from London. Open your eyes, this is our chance to have an epic summer romance!”</p><p>“Does that mean you have to flirt with everyone you meet?”</p><p>“I don’t flirt with <em>everyone</em>!”</p><p>“Hm, let me see. Ah, how about that girl from two days ago to whom you said he can call you his dream girl and then you punched him in the shoulder, ‘jokingly’? Or the girl who was wearing that ‘Little Mermaid’ t-shirt and you asked her if she likes sushi because you do, too?”</p><p>“Mock all you want, brother-dear,” she said, flipping her hair in his face as she did a pirouette over to a stack of magazines on the counter. Kate showed her the aforementioned puppy, both girls fawning over it. Then she came out of her reverie. “But I’ve got a good feeling for this summer. Actually, my sixth sense is telling me that the woman of my dreams may be coming in this very moment through that door!”</p><p>She pointed at the doors connecting the house and the gift shop, and lo and behold - a wild Lestrade appeared. He sneezed and yawned, his business suit he liked to wear a crumpled mess. He hadn’t slept much, Sherlock noticed. </p><p>“Ew, the universe hates me,” Irene cringed, hiding her face in her hands. Sherlock laughed at the timing, Kate falling from her chair to save face of a hard working employee. </p><p>“Everything alright?” Lestrade asked, passing by to open the cash register. He regarded it with an intrigued look before closing it again, brows raised at Kate but without comment. “By the way, my nephew John is coming today, he’ll be here the whole summer just like you two. He had been held up by his last exams, that’s why you haven’t met him yesterday. Just a heads up.”</p><p>Irene murmured something reassuring and Lestrade vanished somewhere outside the shop, happy with the business. </p><p>“Oof, that was close,” Kate said, sitting down once more, her feet returning to their original, comfortable position.</p><p>“My point still stands,” Irene said, regaining her gracefulness. “Summer and romance just go together, brother dear. You never know when it hits you, or who. Remember that. But please, do have standards this time.”</p><p>Sherlock scowled at her, moving a box of cleaning detergents towards the staff room with his foot. “And what do you think I’d do? Fall in love with the next guy I lay my eyes upon?”</p><p>She fluttered her long eyelashes at him. “Hm, maybe it will be the mysterious John guy we haven’t met yet?”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock groaned. “Don’t even start. You and Mummy talked, haven’t you? <em>Don’t</em>.”</p><p>“I haven’t. Now I will. A <em>mysterious </em>nephew.”</p><p>“Why does everything here have to include the word ‘mystery’ in it? Why should I fall in love with a random guy I will have to spend time with for two whole, painful months? No, Irene. I know you’re joking, but even the idea itself is ridiculous. You’re spending too much time on the internet.”</p><p>“Fine, whatever,” she put her hands up defensively. “You’re no fun. Just unwind a little for once. There’s nothing wrong with falling in <em>loooove.</em>”</p><p>“She’s right, you know,” Kate conceded, smiling at her phone, undoubtedly seeing another puppy. “You’re a bit wound-up, you need to chill more, my dude. And John’s fun, don’t worry about him. He’s cool.”</p><p>Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead, he began re-arranging magazines in their racks, first alphabetically and then depending on their content (also alphabetically). Irene and Kate got lost together in the back of the shop and he heard them leave for a while too before storming back, talking about some creepy dolls Irene had found in a box. Then they went back, talking about Irene’s major. </p><p>The bells chimed as the door opened and closed, and Sherlock faintly registered another pair of feet walking around aimlessly. The customer wouldn't bother them yet.</p><p>“Excuse me,” said a male voice and Sherlock groaned internally. He had <em>just</em> planned to sort the magazines by colour. Blissful ignorance was over. “Is Greg Lestrade here?”</p><p>Sherlock faced the customer, but found himself at loss for words as he laid eyes upon the young man standing in front of him. He was shorter but muscular, definitely doing sports or working out. The stranger was blond, his eyes a light brown colour similar to that of a walnut. </p><p>“Uhm, you alright?” he raised an eyebrow, a hint of concern in his voice and Sherlock had realised he hadn’t answered him. </p><p>He cleared his throat and looked down on the floor. “Ah, yes, sorry. Lestrade has just gone out. I’ve no idea where. Probably dumpster diving to find a new exhibit for the Shack.”</p><p>The guy laughed and Sherlock noted that his smile was really, <em>really </em>nice. He bit the inside of his cheek. </p><p><em>Snap out of it,</em> he told himself. Didn’t he shoot Irene and Kate down on this topic mere ten minutes ago? Ugh, he was such a liar, being smitten by random encounters such as these. Of course he couldn’t dodge this sentiment. Anyway, the good thing was that this guy was here probably just this once. He would never have to see his handsome face again (did he really just think that?) - he possibly just wants his money back because of Lestrade's tourist trap sellings.</p><p>“It does sound like Greg, he actually did that last year,” the blond said, crossing his arms. Oh-oh, so he actually tags around the place sometimes. He knows Lestrade by his first name - no angry customer, then.</p><p>“If you need to see him urgently, I’ll go and find him,” Sherlock offered, bobbing his head towards the front door. </p><p>“No need, I’ll just put my stuff upstairs and wait for him to get back.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>The blond extended his arm for Sherlock to shake it, which he did, more automatically as his brain went into overdrive. “I’m John Watson, by the way. Greg’s great-great-great nephew thrice-or-so removed.”</p><p>Oh no. </p><p>“He told me about you and your sister staying here for the summer holidays, you must be Sherlock, right?” John said, lowering his left hand alongside his body. He winked at Sherlock (who was now frozen to the spot, thank you very much) and picked up his bags. He looked Sherlock up and down quickly, smiling adorably (damnit, Holmes). “Seems like I will finally have reasonable company to spend the time with.” Sherlock barely managed to nod.</p><p>
  <em>Oh no. </em>
</p><p>John shuffled beyond the overpriced merchandise and disappeared in the house. He clearly knew his way around. “I’ll see you around, Sherlock!”</p><p>Sherlock stood there, shocked. He didn’t even notice Irene come forward from the back of the shop, a merciless smirk on her face. </p><p>And that’s when Sherlock realised he was utterly fucked.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, there goes the first chapter of episode 1, Pixie Cut! Another update is coming on the 5th, so if you liked this premise, do come back, there are more shenanigans awaiting :)</p><p>I am <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a>.<br/>My best friend Bee from <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a><br/>is doing fanart for this fic, and my second best friend  <a href="https://ipromiseimnotaspy.tumblr.com/">Dee</a> is going to be making John's moodboards and moodboards in general as she sees fit! :) check them out!</p><p>Thank you all for reading again, and I'll see you in four days~<br/>Word count: 6034</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Pixie Cut II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a mysterious journal</p><p>episode 1, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! Chapter 2 of episode 1 Pixie Cut is here, I hope you will enjoy it :3<br/>I'd like to thank Bee and Dee for reading the rough and revised versions of this, thanks y'all &lt;3. And thank you to everyone who read this, gave kudos and commented, ya guys are the best :3 &lt;3<br/>Into adventure!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do <em>not</em>,” he groaned into his hands. Irene laughed, wiping a non-existent tear from under her eye. </p><p>“Do I take it you called dibs on our besottedly handsome John Watson? Don’t worry, he’s not my type anyway.”</p><p>“As if that helped my cause. No, listen - this is surely nothing. It’s not like I’m going to pursue him or anything.”</p><p>“Maybe you should,” Irene purred, laughing once more and Sherlock wished death by strangulation was legal in the state. </p><p>“Irene…”</p><p>“Chill, I’m not going to rattle your little crush out,” she patted him. “But you should’ve seen the way he looked at you. Or you at him, for that matter. The <em>spark</em>. The <em>everything</em>. Like you’re each other’s love of your lives.”</p><p>“We’ve seen each other for two minutes, Irene.”</p><p>“Exactly, and acquaintances don’t look besotted after such a short amount of time, unlike you two.”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Sherlock repeated, pacing up and down the narrow aisle. And he wasn’t <em>besotted</em>. Just taken aback by the sudden, pleasing features of this John Watson, for whatever reason. “There’s no reason for you to think he looked at me the way you imply, and I don’t plan on falling for him.”</p><p>“You already did, you didn’t even have to plan,” Irene deadpanned, pursing her lips. </p><p>“What did Sherlock do?” Kate asked, carrying a ragged cloth plus a detergent to clean a glass cabinet that displayed a hideous creature of unknown origin, but in fact it was a mere taxidermied badger carcass glued to a dolphin tail. Lestrade called it ‘The Hufflepuff Horror’. </p><p>“He met John!”</p><p>“Ooh!”</p><p>“And you should’ve seen the heart eyes they made at each other!”</p><p>“Aw! So cute! Told you John’s cool. Congratulations!”</p><p>“For the last time, women!” Sherlock seethed, tugging at his hair desperately, attempting to shush them should John backtrack and overhear this ridiculous conversation. “Nothing happened! And Kate, just because we met doesn’t mean we’re suddenly in a relationship.”</p><p>“Well, you could be,” she shrugged, saying it with such normality that Sherlock stuttered, unable to reply. Irene snorted, hugging his arm and hanging onto him as the annoying step-sibling that she was being. </p><p>Could they? <em>Great, now even my brain is betraying my logical senses. </em>No, this was silly. Love at first sight was a nonexistent myth he refused to acknowledge because it was overused and commercialised by Hollywood and other high-profit studios and agencies. There was more that made him quite disdainful, but he shut that part of his brain off, not willing to get himself even more riled up.</p><p>“Admit it, brother-mine,” Irene teased with a grin, and Kate clung onto his other arm, Sherlock’s face smoothing itself into an irritated poker face. “You’re in <em>loooove</em>.”</p><p>Sherlock let out a tired sigh. This was terrible. Torture. And the worst part was, deep down, seated amidst the hidden boxes of emotions and intuition, he knew she had a point and was, to a lesser degree, correct. A small part of him had already started developing <em>feelings</em> of romantic nature for John, and tried as he might, it kept bouncing back at him. <em>Hateful, hateful!</em></p><p>Before Sherlock could come up with a retort, Lestrade marched inside, carrying a bunch of signs and hammer with nails in a pocket sized box. </p><p>“Alright, you hyperactive teenagers! I need one of you three to go and hammer up these signs in this spooky part of the forest leading up to High Street.”</p><p>“I’ll do it,” Sherlock raised his hand, stepping forth to get the signs and tools from Lestrade. He’d do anything to get away from Irene and Kate now. Anything but their teasing and romantic brainwashing.</p><p>“Ugh, whenever I'm in those woods I feel like something is watching me,” Irene shivered next to him, watching him take the signs. Kate returned to her usual spot behind the cash register, pulling a neatly stacked magazine about hunting out of its proper order. Sherlock had put it there <em>minutes </em>ago!</p><p>Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Really, Irene? Listen, you all know the family secret - the whole talk with ‘monsters in the forest’ is nothing but local legends and folklore, amongst many, dumbed up by guys like <em>me </em>to fool guys like <em>him</em>.” </p><p>He pointed at a tourist standing near one of the high shelves who was giggling at the fact that he could pull the mini Sascrotch’s pants down. Yeah, Sherlock didn’t feel sorry for them getting scammed so easily. </p><p>“One has to make a living in this opportunistic country,” Lestrade said, opening a can of soda he had tucked in his trouser pockets. He prodded Sherlock to the exit. “Now off you go, the more tourists with money we attract, the better.” </p><p>And so, Sherlock found himself nailing DIY signs to pine tree trunks half an hour later. It was chilly, crowns of the trees shielding the forest floor from the sunshine above. There was even mist floating low above the ground in the darker places and shrubs. Sherlock held another shabby sign against a tree trunk with his left hand, taking a nail from between his teeth and hammering it roughly a couple times before it was steady. </p><p>He felt sorry for the narrow pieces of wood. The tree from which the signs came surely never expected to be hung up in Oregon, having words like <em>Amazing!</em>, <em>Whoatastic!,</em> or <em>Interesting!</em> written on them. It would technically be alright and even pique his curiosity, weren’t it for the connection with the Mystery Shack.</p><p>He thought back to the encounter with John Watson. His freak-out didn’t seem as big of a deal as he had made it sound. Irene knew how to push him in the right direction to get a reaction out of him and he fell for it, that’s all. She didn’t mean it, possibly. She wasn’t malicious. Just bored like him, though her activities to drive boredom away could be less concentrated around Sherlock.</p><p>He scowled when his brain started considering scenarios of him and John <em>having a date</em>. Impossible, silly, unlikely. He cursed inwardly as he realised that his stunned stupor earlier in the gift shop prevented him from taking in who John was as a person. Well, as far as the obvious would let him know. It became a sort of his specialty - deducing people based on what they displayed, but most people paid no mind to. It all started when he was a child and Mummy let him watch a crime show whose name eluded him now. But now, he had had no chance to use it, the stupid infatuation that was spreading like a deadly disease clouding his senses. </p><p>
  <em>No-no-no-no-no.</em>
</p><p>It didn’t mean anything. And there was nothing wrong if he considered John Watson to be quite attractive. He wasn’t blind, he had twenty-twenty vision, so why not appreciate it? </p><p><em>Gosh I sound like Irene flirting with strangers</em>, he thought to himself, swinging the hammer at another nail. He yelped when the hammer bounced back with a metallic <em>thump </em>and only narrowly avoided hitting him in the nose. </p><p>He let go of the hammer and threw the nail back in the box nearby. He knocked on the pine trunk, echo sounding throughout the tree, all prior thoughts and inner turmoils temporarily forgotten. His brows furrowed as his fingertips attentively brushed the surface, wiping away some of the settled dust. He traced a vertical line to the side, flicked off some of the grime gathered over the years and pulled the little metal doors open. No lock, fortunately. </p><p>Inside was a hole big enough for a child to hide in (hopefully none did it and the lack of skeletons luckily supported the assumption) and there was a small device. Sherlock sneezed when the stale air hit his nose. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and leaned in. </p><p>The device resembled a broken DVD player, with the addition of an antenna, a clock, and two switches. Its surface was rusty and sticky with dirt. Sherlock inspected it from different angles and then flipped the switches one by one. The right one didn’t do anything besides clicking. Once he flipped the left one, though, there was a mechanical sound of something opening up behind him. And sure enough, a square hole in the ground appeared two meters from him, spiderwebs clinging leisurely in the risen air caused by the opening. </p><p>Sherlock’s curiosity piqued even more as he stepped forth and kneeled to get a better look at it. It was a secret underground compartment, not big by any means, but large enough to hide a leatherbound book. </p><p>He took it out and turned it in his hands, fingers brushing the tender and faded dyed leather. It was thick yet light, its aged pages yellow and brown. A silvery outline of an opened umbrella gilded the front. What caught Sherlock’s attention was the fact that he had seen a similar image elsewhere for sure, which struck him as odd, but he couldn’t put his finger on as to why. In the middle of the lining, there was an imprinted letter ‘M’ with the number three at its index. He flipped the book open (no signature) and read the introduction paragraph on the very first page.</p><p>
  <em>June 22
It’s hard to believe it’s been almost six years since I’ve begun my research of the wondrous mysteries here in Reichenbach Falls, Oregon. I’m so far from home and yet I start to feel like this is its extension. If only my family could visit. </em>
</p><p>Sherlock turned the pages. To his surprise, they were filled with information and data about magical creatures and urban legends from the area. There were ciphers messily scribbled in the corners of some pages, graphs, drawings of said creatures, and details about them. </p><p>“What is all this?” Sherlock muttered, feeling the softened paper under his index finger as he touched a drawing of a pixie. Then there was a strange coloured circle on another double page.</p><p>He flipped to the next, only to read the following words:</p><p>
  <em>Unfortunately, my suspicions have been confirmed - I’m being watched, closely. I must hide this book before They find it. There is a chance They would go out of their way and find my pressure point, which must be avoided at all cost.
Remember, in Reichenbach Falls, <span class="u">there is no one you can trust.</span> </em>
</p><p>“No one you can trust…”</p><p>“HELLO, BROTHER-DEAR!” yelled Irene, her hand grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him. </p><p>Sherlock screamed and clutched the book to his chest. “Can you not?!” he glared at his step-sister, who chuckled at his reaction. </p><p>“I’m afraid I cannot knot, Sherlock. I may learn it, though, it could come in handy. I wanted to check up on you, see if you didn’t hammer nails into your hands or something.”</p><p>“Very funny,” Sherlock said dryly, taking a calming breath. He didn’t even hear her approach him. “Do I look like someone who is so incompetent as to hammer nails into his own hands? Plus, it’s quite impossible to do the other hand once the first one is firmly nailed to a surface.”</p><p>“Jeez, you git, that was just a tease,” Irene rolled her eyes, adjusting her ponytail. “So, are you actually not going to show me?”</p><p>“Show you what?”</p><p>“The book.”</p><p>“What book?”</p><p>“The one that’s been lying in that secret underground compartment I saw you open that you’re currently clutching to your chest like your life depends on it?”</p><p>Sherlock exhaled through his nose. There’s no getting out of it now. Besides, they did share things with each other, they were always there for each other. They survived their studies in Canada by sticking to each other, how was this any different? “Fine. But let’s go somewhere more private.”</p><p>Back in their attic room Sherlock briefed Irene in on what he observed about the book so far. She seemed impressed and didn’t think for one second that this could be a fake, and Sherlock agreed, even though more in-depth analysis was in order to fully understand its nature.</p><p>“And Greg said it was all just local legends. Silly man,” she said, brushing her hair down with a comb. She flipped it to the side when she was done, tossing the comb in her nightstand’s drawer.</p><p>“Exactly. According to this book, Reichenbach Falls have this ‘dark side’ that the author of this book explored,” Sherlock said, excitement taking over him. “And what’s more, the pages just stop after a certain point. It’s as if he suddenly disappeared!”</p><p>“I don’t think we should get excited over a person possibly being kidnapped by the government or aliens, but it does sound intriguing.” </p><p>Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but in that moment Mrs. Hudson called on Irene from downstairs. </p><p>“Irene! There’s someone at the door waiting for you!”</p><p>“Where are you going?” Sherlock inquired. He watched Irene frantically move about the room looking for something. She proclaimed a mighty ‘<em>Ha</em>!’ when she seized her purse and she darted for the door. </p><p>“Oh, haven’t I told you?” she said as she treaded down the stairs. “This girl’s got a date!”</p><p>“What? Hold on,” he rushed to stop her, grabbing her by the wrists. “You managed to get a date in the what, twenty minutes I was gone?”</p><p>“Why is that a surprise? I’m gorgeous,” she waved a hand dismissively after Sherlock released her from his grip. </p><p>“And who is it you’re going out with?”</p><p>“Don’t worry, it’s not John,” she winked at him, which made him blush for some reason. He sorted himself out, goddammit. There’s no reason to blush! “</p><p>Irene slithered out of his grip and disappeared to go have her <em>date</em>. Sherlock found himself standing in the deserted hallway alone. His stomach gave a loud, insistent grumble. Right, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was now three in the afternoon. </p><p>He made his way to the kitchen and searched the cupboards for food, having no qualms about this being someone else’s kitchen. Well, Lestrade had told them to feel like home, which he didn’t, but he’ll use the comforts the house offers without shame. He settled for plain toast, opening the fridge to fish out a soda can (a cheap rip-off of Pepsi called <em>Tixi</em>). He closed the fridge with his hips, taking another bite of his dry bread. It tasted stale. When was the last time Lestrade went shopping for fresh groceries? Speaking of the devil….</p><p>“‘Sup, kid,” Lestrade greeted him, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it on a chair as he came in. Finished with the tour. “Done with the signs?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock lied. He actually forgot it in the forest. He facepalmed internally. Whatever, he’ll fetch it later. It’s not like Lestrade needs it himself, he borrowed it from Mrs. Hudson’s shed. Here’s to hope the upkeeper won’t be needing them for a while. </p><p>“Good. Hopefully it will draw in some hikers.”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>“Oh, have you met John already? He’s out grocery shopping right now but he should be back in about an hour approximately.”</p><p>Sherlock sucked in a breath. Good, he doesn’t have to face him that soon. Maybe, if he’s clever enough, he can avoid him all summer, if only to escape Irene’s remarks. But meeting Lestrade’s gaze, he felt a frown scrunch up his brows. Lestrade eyed him with a <em>look</em>, searching somewhat, as if Sherlock was about to perform magic tricks in front of him.</p><p>“We met briefly when he arrived, he was looking for you,” Sherlock said, sipping from his soda can. </p><p>“Yeah, he said so himself,” Lestrade nodded, pouring himself some cold coffee that was left in the brewer since morning. He grimaced, but gulped it down anyway. “He was pretty excited to have other people living here for a bit. I’m sure you’ll get along well.”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>“Millie told me you’re studying in Toronto, this was your… first year, yeah?” the man asked further, rinsing the mug he drank from, putting it away in a cupboard above. His body moved in a controlled manner, a sudden, albeit inconspicuous change at first glance.</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock said, rotating the soda can, half full and yet light like it was empty. Lestrade was ever the strange man. “I’m studying chemistry. Irene is a fashion student.”</p><p>“Yeah, she does have the style and personality of one. She’s fun. How was it? Living so far away from London?”</p><p>“It was alright,” Sherlock said, shrugging. He hated small talk, but was this? He wasn’t in the mood for answering questions, but he promised Mummy not to be snappy. Which he wasn’t, he knew how to control his frustration with the general population. And Lestrade was polite. A scammer of a Canadian, that much was true, but he was tolerable as a person to live with. And he was their host, so societal expectations dictated to be nice. “It was different, obviously, but I had no problems adjusting as much. I am not the most sociable and amiable person, so I’m mostly alone studying or doing experiments.”</p><p>“Millie told me you have a knack for those,” Lestrade snorted, arching an eyebrow at a memory of Sherlock’s mother surely telling him about one of those experiments that didn’t work out. It wasn’t his fault the chairs in the class were flammable… </p><p>“How much did she tell you?” </p><p>“Enough to get a picture of what to expect,” Lestrade grinned. That wasn’t a normal reaction when a person was told what Sherlock was capable of. “Just don’t summon dead pirate zombies and I’ll be fine. And no experiments with open flames in the house, mind you, but that’s a no-brainer I think.”</p><p>“Sure,” Sherlock mumbled, slight suspicion arising at the comment regarding the undead. Hm. Probably just a pop culture reference he wasn’t getting. It’s not like Lestrade knew about the journal, he only used the legends to his advantage to scam naive tourists. </p><p>“You know,” the man pressed on, and Sherlock exhaled deeply though his nose, forcing his face to stay neutral. He desperately wanted to get out of the kitchen. “You remind me of someone. Quite a lot. You two would get along pretty well. He also studied in Canada and came from England. And similarly enough, he was tired of dealing with idiots.”</p><p>Sherlock’s head snapped up to look at Lestrade, who wore an amused expression on his face, a bit dazed as if he remembered a precise conversation from the past. Sherlock saw no point in mentioning such a thing, but perhaps Lestrade and the other guy were close friends and thus the fond comparison. </p><p>“Well, then that’s probably the one thing we’d have in common personality-wise,” Sherlock said neutrally, getting up, the chair scraping the tiles loudly as he did so. </p><p>“You’d be surprised,” Lestrade commented, a mischievous yet sad spark in his eyes. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it, so he brushed it off. </p><p>“Well. I’ll go upstairs and… study. I need to be up-to-date with chemistry and a new research that has been published.” A pathetic excuse, but being in Lestrade’s proximity became unbearable. He saw Lestrade smirk and hum, and the moment Sherlock entered the hallway he heard the lock on the front door unlock and the handle turn. </p><p>He bolted to the stairs, taking three at a time, steps light but strong enough to push him out of the periphery fast. His fight or flight instinct didn’t fail him, as it turned out that it was John who came in. That was close. Maybe if he avoids the boy long enough, then anything that etched itself into his feelings will dissipate on its own. No harm, no foul. </p><p>On the first floor, he slumped down the wall, out of breath, feeling like a scared doe. Downstairs he heard John greet Lestrade in the kitchen, the uncle surprised by how quick his nephew was done with the shopping. </p><p>“I don’t stop to smoke a pack of cigarettes before I head back, that’s why,” John said, the tone of his voice indicating his distaste for Lestrade’s habit. In the two days they had been here, Sherlock picked up on it too. Lestrade easily smoked a packet of cigarettes a day, two at once if he’d dealt with an annoying customer, three if he had free time between tours and it was draining him. </p><p>Not that Sherlock minded it. Actually, he stole a couple cigs from the older man. He himself smoked, although infrequently. It was a source of relief when things got overwhelming, and it started a year before he began university. Mummy didn’t know, but Irene did - she caught him one night, and then threatened to tell on him if Sherlock ever annoyed her. </p><p>“And what else should I smoke when I’m stressed? Maple syrup?” Lestrade said defensively, though without bite. “I don’t smoke that much, you know.”</p><p>“Mrs. Hudson said you started your second pack an hour ago,” John countered, and Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh. He pulled out his phone and created a new Excel spread sheet titled ‘<em>How Many Cigarettes Can Lestrade’s Lungs Take In A Day</em>’ - title to be reviewed. He may as well start a research on the Canadian himself to alleviate some of his boredom. </p><p>“Pfft, fine. But I’m not going to feel guilty for it.”</p><p>“You should.”</p><p>“Guilt tripping me, John? I thought we were family!”</p><p>“Yes, and as such I can kick your ass for endangering your health,” John giggled, any previous tension gone. Sherlock decided it would be better to stop eavesdropping, no matter how soothing and enchanting John’s voice sounded to him. </p><p>He got up, bare feet silently moving across the carpet covering the creaky floor. Eleven steps later, he flung himself onto his unmade bed, taking the journal out from under his pillow. He and Irene didn’t have much time to go over it, but seeing as she was gone and he had nothing better to do than hide like a coward from the presence of one particular Handsome Canadian™, he started reading it. </p><p>The first page was almost all blank, except for the typical ‘<em>This book is a property of --</em>’ which was torn off in half, and therefore the identity of the author remained anonymous. Pity, but that gave Sherlock an opportunity to find out who it was. The handwriting was elegant and had a fancy feeling to it, and by the shape of the lines and ink used he guessed the texts were written in fountain pen. It was vaguely familiar but he had seen and analyzed plenty of handwritings during his lifetime, that wasn’t anything new, even though it looked mildly interesting. </p><p>When it came to the rest of the journal and its contents, Sherlock decided against his initial doubt that the book was, in fact, not a fake. A thought crossed his mind that this could be a prank of Lestrade’s, but it seemed too complicated for him to go through such a hussle. Lestrade may have been cunning, but he was also incredibly lazy to pull a stunt like this. Plus, who would build a compartment in the middle of a forest if not a legible mystery hunter that could have been long dead and this was the only legacy left? </p><p>The different pages on individual species of supernatural creatures were accompanied by drawings, some detailed, some only sketches and doodles. Probably done in a hurry. There was an exceptional sketch of a jackalope sitting on a rock, though, dozing off and its paws limp with slumber. Now <em>that</em> would be a pet. </p><p>Fairly early on in the journal was a peculiar page titled: <em>Mind Palace</em>. Sherlock had heard of this memory technique before. He even intended to try and use it, but he always got sidetracked by one experiment or another. From what he remembered, the technique consisted of assigning words and information to furniture and easily tangible things one could see if they were to imagine a room they’re very familiar with. This Mind Palace, however, seemed to be slightly…. advanced, per se.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <span class="u">Mind Palace</span>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>
      <em></em>
    </strong>
  </span>
  <em>1st December</em>
</p><p><em>As the title suggests, this particular concept has a lot to do with our human minds. It is a topic I’ve stumbled upon in an underground library south of town, though still on its premises. I wasn’t able to take it home with me, but I plan to take another trip there soon enough, with </em>L<em> as a reinforcement. It came to my attention that he…. worries about me when I ‘run off skipping like Red Riding Hood’ apparently. Inaccurate description since I do not wear red, but his pop culture references are a part of him. Unfortunately. </em></p><p>Sherlock snorted. The author of the journal sounded like an intriguing person. Quite similar to him, in fact. The wording was strangely comforting. And they shared a distaste for unnecessary references flying left and right. He made a mental note of the underground library - he’ll definitely have to go check it out himself.</p><p>
  <em>But to explain the importance of my findings - ‘Mind Palace’ is also known as a memory technique, but as the book had revealed to me, it has been known for centuries under a different concept. Many native people of the area were said to have discovered it long ago as a form of communication with the subconscious. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>What happens is that you put away your most recent memories (or any) into a familiar space, much like the modern memorisation technique. But with time and practise, it may be possible to venture into the metaphysical itself. Even though this sounds too fantastical to me, I learnt not to underestimate this town and its wonders. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>What is more, the natives have been said to have seen a strange being from another dimension. I have already begun my own research on it, but for now I’ll focus on the Mind Palace. I don’t think that you can transport yourself into your own mind on the physical level, but I believe there is a chance of you to be there consciously and tangibly similar to lucid dreaming or astral projection. </em>
</p><p>Sherlock hummed, completely consumed by the secrets the journal revealed to him. Oh, this definitely wasn’t fake. He probably should be more perturbed by the fact that the reality wasn’t strictly black and white and some sort of magic veiled through the fabric of existence, but… To hell with that! This is a gold mine! Practically his childhood dreams of being a treasure hunter or adventurer… There was an addendum on the bottom of the page.</p><p>
  <em>8th March
I have successfully incorporated the Mind Palace into my everyday life. I have to say that is quite the efficient tool to have on disposal. It is tricky at first, I have to confess, but with more practice it became effortless to file away all the input and data. </em>
</p><p><em>I’ve also begun to… get glimpses of the subconscious, if I can call it that. </em>H<em> and I have started another experiment regarding our ‘shadow selves’ that have been hinted in the southern library book. I have revisited that place at least once a week since my discovery of it in late November. </em></p><p>On the right side of the double page was a column titled ‘<em>Shadow Self</em>’ accompanied by a drawing of a black silhouette that was shadowed by itself. The shadow below was all grey and black, but it had a pair of white dots instead of eyes, watching. Creepy but fascinating.</p><p><strong><span class="u">Shadow Self</span></strong>
<em>This is yet to be proven as ‘real’ as I haven’t had the luck of finding or establishing a link or connection with my own shadow self. </em>H<em>, however, has been able to, to a degree, even though it was a fairly short meeting. </em></p><p><em>Apparently it portrays your repressed personality traits and characteristics, hence the obvious name. The shadows don’t seem to be harmful, as </em>H<em> said it is purely that - a mere shadow and nothing physical. </em></p><p><em>It is unknown whether it poses any real threat and therefore requires further careful research under my scrutiny. </em>L <em>doesn’t know we’re doing this as of now, he has family obligations to attend to and oversee with his extended family. </em></p><p>
  <em>As far as I know, shadow selves do not reflect one’s own gender and can take either masculine or feminine forms. This is connected to a person’s psychology, as shadow selves are what we lack, essentially. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have also debated whether a person can lack or get rid of their shadow self. Is it possible I don’t have it, even though I’ve been in touch with my Mind Palace stronger than ever before?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I will find out soon enough how beneficial and how dangerous those beings - us - are. Perhaps they’re the key to reveal more about the Wheel. </em>
</p><p>The Wheel…. Oh! Sherlock turned pages to the right until he found a page that first got his attention in the forest before Irene jumped at him. </p><p>There was a perfect circle dissected in the middle by the journal. It’s outline was grey, and there were two inner sections that were coloured. The bigger outside circle was divided into six sections, each one consisting of one colour of the rainbow. The smaller second inner circle consisted of colours that were a mix of two primary colours that were next to each other. In each of the sections in both circles were symbols Sherlock couldn’t connect to anything he’d seen before. The purple section had the symbols of a pine tree in it, red had a rose, orange had a sun, yellow had a bee, green had a maple leaf, and blue next to purple had a crescent moon. </p><p>The inner section that connected the colours had symbols in it too. Purple-red had a koi fish, red-orange had a pair of symmetrical eyes, orange-yellow had a sunflower (Sherlock assumed), yellow-green had shared a broken heart, green-blue shared crystals, and blue-purple had a constellation as a symbol. Sherlock never paid too much attention to the stars and astronomy as a whole, but that may change now. </p><p>But that wasn’t all there was to it. In the middle of the colour wheel was a large space, black-and-white covered with squares altering in the colours. And throughout this section was drawn a triangle, a single eye in it. Inside its pupil was the number 8, Sherlock assumed. He got an uneasy feeling while looking in it, as though it were watching him. </p><p>There were equations scattered around the pages, the handwriting hardly legible in some parts. There wasn’t much to tell him, truth be told. Half the text was coded in one way or another. Perhaps this is what the cryptic message in the third-quarter of the journal is about? As far as Sherlock observed, there were no keys to decode the ciphers in the journal. Smart, whoever compiled this was definitely smart enough. </p><p>Finger pads trailed the soft, yellowed page, skin to paper caressing the symbols in each colour. What did it mean? Sherlock hated not knowing. But the thrill of the chase pushed the distaste to the back of his mind. He has to find out what happened to the author. They’ll surely have the answers. That is, if Sherlock doesn’t find out on his own accord sooner than that. </p><p>“Hey!” a strong hand on his shoulder and a cheerful greeting startled him out of his focused contemplation. </p><p>“<em>AH</em>!” Sherlock screamed, snapping the journal shut and throwing it to the side automatically. He threw himself back, eyes wide, heart frantically beating faster than the beat of ‘<em>Staying Alive</em>’ by the Bee Gees. </p><p>Looking up, he saw a very apprehensive, <em>still very handsome</em>, John Watson who tried not to look like a deer in headlights, much like Sherlock felt at the sight of him. </p><p>
  <em>Ah, shit.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sherlock thought he can escape but guess what - there is no  e s c a p e  because Johnlock is c o m i n g<br/>Oh, and the colour wheel can be seen on tumblr <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/post/628423700410236928/reichenbach-falls-2">here</a><br/>.<br/>Comments are appreciated and 100% encouraged :D<br/>Thank you all for reading, next chapter is reviwed and ready to post on the 10th! :)<br/>See you then~</p><p>Updated: 5.9. 2020<br/>Words: 5309</p><p>My tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>My friend Bee's tumblr (she does this fic's fanart and it's amazing): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>I wish you all a nice day wherever you are~</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Pixie Cut III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a deer junkie</p><p>episode 1, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello and welcome to another update! After this, we have 2 more chapters before we plunge into episode 2!<br/>Thank you all for reading, giving kudos, bookmarks, and lovely comments - they make my days bighter, so I hope shenanigans in Reichenbach Falls at the Mystery Shack can cheer you up, too!<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee who beta read for me and withstand my pestering when I ask for 'first' feedback :p :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Shit, sorry!” John said, taking an awkward step back, hands raised in self-defense. Sherlock didn’t hear him come in, he was too deep in his analysis of the Wheel. He exhaled in a long, shuddering breath (embarrassing), but waved his hand in a dismissive motion. “It’s just that I called your name a couple times from the doorway but you’ve been so absorbed that you didn’t hear me. I guess. So, uh, I figured I’d come in? I thought you’d notice but you’re an avid reader, heh.”</p><p>John looked as uncomfortable as Sherlock felt in that moment. Obviously he didn’t intend to intrude in Sherlock’s space, but he was eager enough to come in anyway. Chatty Canadians… Not that Sherlock minded, but he wasn’t used to people seeking out his company willingly. That’s why studying in Toronto was better than in the UK. People didn’t know him, had no idea who he was and he had little to no desire to put himself out in the world despite what Irene and Mummy said about having friends. He could be alone, because it protected him to a degree from unintelligent taunting and stupid questions like ‘Why did you choose to study chemistry?’ and ‘Why did you pour acid on my phone?’, or ‘Did you know that if you don’t shut up about chemistry and crime shows, I’ll break your teeth in?’ and so on. </p><p>“Uhm,” Sherlock said, blinking. John scratched the back of his neck, looking at him from under his lashes, a shy smile on his lips. He looked… cute. <em>Fuck off, brain</em>. “You could say that.”</p><p>“Sorry again,” John repeated his apology, and Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he didn’t want to get attached to John Watson, who shamelessly invaded his mind after one short interaction. Unfair. But. He didn’t want to be rude to John, so he kept his mouth shut about tedious repetition.</p><p>“No matter,” Sherlock shrugged, straightening his back. He sat on the edge of the bed, not knowing how to proceed. “So… What did you want?”</p><p>“Oh, just… Come and check up on you,” John said, one corner of his mouth lifting minutely. The sun from the outside shone through the triangular purple-and-red stained window on John’s torso and half of his face. “I kinda rushed off in the gift shop, so I thought I’d pop in and say hi. So, hi….?”</p><p>“Hi,” Sherlock said dryly, but huffed a laugh when he realised the absurdity of it. All the dread he felt building up sort of dissipated, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away from John. But before it could become weird, he pried his eyes away from his face, instead opting to look him up as a whole. </p><p>He was shorter than Sherlock - but then again, most people were. The jeans he wore were worn-out but still intact, and his shoes displayed similar signs of years of use. He took good care of them, though. Not so frugal, or maybe the shoes just held sentimental value for him. His eyes moved to his chest, which was covered by a white t-shirt, and on top of it was a yellow-and-black shirt with squares, the sleeves rolled up. The colour complemented his dirty blond hair. When Sherlock’s eyes rested on John’s lips, he realised with a jolt that he was speaking to him again. </p><p>“What were you reading?” John asked, tilting his head to the side to get a glance of the journal. “It has a pretty cool cover.”</p><p>Sherlock panicked, one hand snatching the journal and pushing it under his pillow again. John grimaced, averting his gaze. Oh no, he probably thinks it’s his personal diary now. The thing is, Sherlock wouldn’t really mind showing it to John… But having space between them was best, even though it was pretty damn difficult to hold onto his self-imposed rules when the embodiment of perfection stood before him. <em>Jesus, okay, hold your horses, Holmes. </em>Yes, the <em>distance</em>. </p><p>“It’s nothing, just a…. chemistry book,” Sherlock lied lamely, and he winced inwardly at the pathetic excuse. He just didn’t want John to think it was a diary, that’s all. Besides, the journal said you cannot trust people in this town… Even less when Sherlock didn’t trust his own emotions. John looked like the exact opposite of untrustworthy, but his infatuation cannot simply take it any longer. </p><p>“Oh, right, Greg mentioned you study the subject,” John nodded, still somewhat apprehensive by Sherlock’s hastiness and his perceived intrusion. Sherlock had to spare them both the cringiness of the tense situation. He couldn’t stand facing him when clearly his <em>feelings</em> decided to persist at such close proximity. </p><p>Before John could ask another question as he tried to maintain a friendly atmosphere and amicable getting-to-know-each-other talk, Sherlock suddenly remembered that he left Mrs Hudson’s hammer and nails in the forest. The upkeeper was very clear about wanting these to come back to her, and he sure as hell picked up on the silent threat beneath the sugary smile of the adorable woman. </p><p>“The nails and hammer!” Sherlock almost shouted, startling John as he shot up to his feet, stumbling to the side as his blood pressure recalibrated itself inside that head of his. John caught him by the elbows to prevent him from falling, sending electricity and heat up his spine. Oh, that was… good. Their eyes met, brown with silvery blue and ecstatic. And there was the weird feeling of deja vu once again, a familiarity so comforting Sherlock wanted to curl into it like into a blanket and never let go. </p><p>He kicked his brain into starting basic functions and grabbed the journal as not to leave it lying there like a bait, tucking it under his shirt vest in a not very inconspicuous manner. “Thanks, sorry, I have to go or Mrs Hudson will give me the eyebrow of disappointment! Catch you later!”</p><p>And he rushed out, leaving a very perplexed John Watson behind, unawares that a dazed smile played at his lips.</p><p>~</p><p>John stood in the attic room, confused and unsure of what to do. But the good thing was he got to chat with Sherlock, even though the other boy seemed flustered for some reason and the whole ordeal was rather awkward. His good spirits were flattened when his thoughts caught up to him, however. Did he freak Sherlock out too much? He didn’t blame him for getting startled like that since he was obviously marching into the room and then grabbing him by the shoulder, but uhm…. Yeah. </p><p>He was all too aware that his small talk was atrocious. He hated it too. Very much. But… he hasn’t really got the chance to talk to him otherwise. And God, how did he want to chat with Sherlock. </p><p>For John, coming to Reichenbach Falls and spending time with his grunkle was something of a yearly ritual. In the twenty-one years he was alive, seventeen of them were spent here every summer. He never missed a single one to be here, where he could be who he truly was without anyone stomping on his feet when he simply needed time for himself. And by ‘anyone’ he meant his immediate family, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. </p><p>When Greg texted John three months ago that they’ll be having company for the summer, he didn’t know what to think. At first, the idea seemed strange, and he didn’t quite like the possibility of having intruders in his safe space, his sanctuary. But the more information Greg relayed to him, the more he warmed up to it. </p><p>“They’re siblings,” Greg had said sometime in May during their call. As John grew up, Greg had taken to getting more involved in his life. Whether it was intentional or not, John was grateful either way, because Greg was there for him when his family became unbearable and generally unsupportive. “They’re from the UK, but they’re studying in Toronto like you. Maybe you’ve met them already?”</p><p>“What are their names?” John had asked, balancing a stack of books in his hands as he tried to clean up his desk. Studying for finals was in full force, and even though he had tried to be consistent and responsible and not cram, the opposite had happened and now he was jumping from textbook to textbook, parkour style like on that one episode on The Office. </p><p>John had cursed when an anatomy book fell on the floor despite his effort not to let it slip from his grip. Fuck this. He had thrown himself onto his bed, sheets crumpled and unmade. He couldn’t have cared less about the state of it since he was the only one occupying it. </p><p>“Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes,” Greg had said, coughing into the phone. He must’ve smoked at least half a pack of cigarettes. “Fucking hell. Hey, and what’s up with that foul language?”</p><p>“Mine or yours?” John had said cheekily, giggling as Greg had told him to stuff it. </p><p>“Probably both. Just don’t tell Mrs Hudson. Anyway, they’re cool kids. Their mom is a close friend of mine, and she and her husband, Irene’s father, are going to travel around the world for the summer because of…. because they want to. So I agreed to let them stay here. Millie doesn’t want them to be stuck in London all this time, especially Sherlock. He studies chemistry and is prone to doing experiments all day if left alone.”</p><p>“Yeah that sums up every chemistry enthusiast I’ve heard of,” John had giggled. Labs were something else. “I think I’ve heard of Irene. Something about a fashion week or such thing. Like a spirit week, but college edition.”</p><p>“Yep, that’s her,” Greg had confirmed, a sound of a plastic wrapper reaching John’s ear. No doubt his grunkle was stuffing himself with a chocolate bar; he had a sweet tooth. “She’s a fashion student. Pretty good one from what Millie told me. But out of the two siblings, I think both of them are equally eccentric. But fun.”</p><p>“Sure. So they’re undergraduates?”</p><p>“Just finishing their…. first…. year. Yep. I’m sure you’ll get along. These two are a chaotic duo on their own, so you won’t have trouble getting along.”</p><p>“I’m chaotic? That’s what you’re trying to say?” John had reached for a bottle of water on his bedside table and unscrewed the cap. He had to keep his water intake regular. One glance at the clock had told him it was quarter to five. </p><p>“You’ve got that after me,” Greg had laughed, which resulted in another coughing fit. John was growing more concerned with his health. “Heh, maybe you’ll even hit Sherlock up.”</p><p>That had made John choke on the water, as he struggled to sit up to stop suffocating and clear his throat. Of course, Greg knew he was bisexual, but this was the first time he had ever suggested dating a guy. </p><p>“Greg, I haven’t even met him!” he had protested, trying to sound scandalised. </p><p>“Are you sure?” Greg had said nonchalantly with a hint of teasing. “Sherlock apparently spends a lot of time in the library. Maybe you’ve seen him, you just didn’t realise. Wait, that’s not right. Sherlock is quite noticeable.”</p><p>“You’re ridiculous. I walk past people every day, of course I wouldn’t have realised!”</p><p>“Then you should spend more time in the library,” Greg had suggested airily and John had shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in disbelief. “You never know where you find your true love, ya know?”</p><p>“That’s sappy. Since when do you care about my love life so much?” John had asked, raising an eyebrow even though Greg couldn’t have seen it. </p><p>“You’re my nephew, of course I care who you take to bed!”</p><p>“Jesus, okay! Stop! I’m not talking with you about this over the phone! That’s just… no!”</p><p>“Hey, I’m just saying that STIs, are --”</p><p>“NO, <em>STOP</em>!” John had roared into the phone as Greg had let out a hearty, earnest laugh. “Jesus Christ, Greg. I’m a future doctor, remember? I know the risks of unprotected sex.”</p><p>“Just in case, kiddo,” Greg had said, finally suppressing the last of his giggles. This man, honestly. “But yeah. Feel free to chat Millie’s kids up any time before coming here. Who knows what secrets of the universe will reveal themselves to you.”</p><p>They had hung up after that, John running off to the gym to get some exercise done. He had had thought of Greg’s suggestion since then while he was still in Toronto, but he never managed to seek either of the siblings out. It had always sort of… slipped his mind. The moment he had decided to look them up on social media or go to the library, something else had popped up or he got distracted, essentially forgetting all about them. </p><p>Truth be told, it didn’t even cross his mind as he was boarding the plane to America. He blamed his finals, they had the tendency to just wipe his memory of all important stuff anyone had told him prior to them. </p><p>Speaking of finals, they were alright. He did pretty well, but he was also glad that university was over for the time being. He intended to enjoy this summer and relax properly. This year was tough, so he definitely deserved it. And he was happy to see Greg after such a long time, too. </p><p>He had taken the usual bus route from the airport to Reichenbach Falls, bags full of clothes and textbooks he dragged with him under the false hope of looking at the materials sometime later in August. It was more for the peace of his conscience than the desire to study, but alas. He expected Greg to be running about the Shack or doing errands in town, so he wasn’t that surprised to come to the house without his grunkle there to greet him. John told him to just carry on with business as usual, he wasn’t a child anymore and could come in himself. </p><p>What he <em>didn’t </em>expect was to find the single most gorgeous human being on the planet in the most atrocious gift shop on his way inside. Literally. It was then that his brain caught up with what Greg had told him over a month ago, and he had made the connection. </p><p>“You must be Sherlock, right?” he had said earlier today. Setting his sight on Sherlock while the other boy wasn't paying attention to him was one thing, but the moment their eyes connected… Man, that was a whole another experience. </p><p>Sherlock’s <em>person </em>as a whole was another experience. Since their call later in May, Greg had told him snippets about Sherlock and Irene, but as per usual, they slipped his mind once the call was over. He <em>was </em>interested in the two of them. What got John the most was that Sherlock had apparently set chairs in one lab on fire, allegedly. <em>So that’s what the rumours in March were about!</em></p><p>But on this fateful day…. It was unexplainable. When their eyes met, John’s calm brown with Sherlock’s chaotic, electric green and blue - there was a shift, and a familiar shift at that. Or at least it felt like a familiar shift to John. Like he’d just found the centre of his universe and yes, alright, that is a pretty sappy statement but he knows what he had felt! And he had seen it in Sherlock’s eyes too. Something mutual, and soft, and desirable. And he was also aware of the way Sherlock seemed to be speechless for a while…. Or maybe he was reading just too much into it? Probably. They’ve met for a couple short minutes, he shouldn’t be getting this interested. But he definitely wanted to get to know Sherlock more. He started a fire in the lab and didn’t get expelled? Now that’s a feat. <em>And</em> he was pretty. <em>Snap out of it</em>.</p><p>So off he went, his mind full of a handsome Brit he would be spending the summer holidays with. Up on the first floor he had wandered into his room, just diagonally off the bathroom. It wasn’t large per se, but big enough for his things and even some stretching or exercise if he chose to do so. But it was larger than the room he shared with his sibling in his childhood home. Ah, how he loved to have a room just to himself. </p><p>Just as he had begun to unpack and toss his clothes in drawers, a knock on the door had disturbed the silent rhythm of his mechanical movements between the bed and the wardrobe. </p><p>“Come in!” he had said, thinking it was Greg who caught a wind of him. Instead, he had found himself facing a short, cute girl with long dark hair woven in a fish tail. Dark blue eyes locked on his, just as piercing as Sherlock’s. “Oh, you’re Irene, then!”</p><p>Irene had given him a happy grin and went to shake his hand. “And you must be John!” she had exclaimed, a devilish spark in her eyes. “I’m happy to finally meet you! Mum said you’re handsome, but I had to see for myself.”</p><p>“Ah, thanks…?” he had tried to seem at ease, but the statement had weirded him out. Luckily, Irene had fallen into a fit of giggles, and she went on to explain. </p><p>“No, no! I don’t mean it like that. I mean, I can appreciate good looks when I see them, as I do right now, but I am not into guys.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh thank God, she’s not crazy. And she’s a lesbian. Oof.</em>
</p><p>“But my brother is!”</p><p>
  <em>Oh….. Thank God?</em>
</p><p>“O…kay?” he had begun, but she smacked him on the arm playfully. </p><p>“Ha, sorry, but he doesn’t mind me outing him. He also doesn’t usually care what people think of him, so you can imagine how much he doesn’t give a toss,” she had said, and John again contemplated whether she was just that crazy or that open about her and her brother’s life. “Anyway, that’s just me breaking the ice. How are you?”</p><p>John had blinked several times before responding. “Well… Good? The flight was okay, the bus ride was hell like always, but I’m finally here, so….”</p><p>“Yeah, well anyway, I promised Kate to help her clean up the gift shop, I have to go,” Irene had said, her energy similar to that of a tennis ball. She had waved John a goodbye and shut the door on her way out. </p><p>John was left speechless, but a smile had tugged at his lips in spite of his confoundedness. This summer was really going to be… different. In the best way possible. </p><p>After that, John had met up with Greg, who hugged the soul out of him in a bear embrace. John could’ve sworn he saw the man tear up a little, but he had felt the same way, and with that thought in mind he returned the hug with as much force as possible. This, however, turned out not to be that good of an idea, because it resulted in a small wrestling match that yielded a picture frame falling to the floor and cracking. Typical. </p><p>Unfortunately, he and Greg had exchanged only a few words before Greg had had to go back for another tour, cursing under his breath that there was not enough time for anything. This summer was busy indeed. He had asked John to do some grocery shopping, and he happily obliged his grunkle. At least it had given him the opportunity to drive his car. He had come earlier than expected, too. Greg alway took ages to shop, with or without company, so John was glad to do it by himself. And he had gotten to buy himself his favourite cereals using Greg’s credit card. Win-win!</p><p>So as he had dealt with putting the goods away while emotionally scolding Greg for his smoking habit (he <em>was</em> going to do something drastic about it, just you wait), his grunkle in question had wiggled his eyebrows at him once he was done. </p><p>“So, you’ve met Sherlock,” he had said, his face blank but a sly smirk began creeping up on his features. </p><p>John had let out an exasperated sigh, shrugging. He had a feeling this was a long time coming. “For a brief moment, yes. Then you sent me off to buy you cheap rip-offs of popular sodas. What’s your point?”</p><p>“Well?” Greg hadn’t seemed off-put by John’s faked scowl. In fact, John had yearned to gush over the mysterious boy with his grunkle (gossip girl style, fight him on that), but he had to play the irritation, too. Greg knew. “Do you like him?”</p><p>“I’m not answering that now,” John had said, but his heart jumped at the question. <em>Oh yes, I do? Kinda. Yeah! Is that insane?</em> It was, kind of. Getting this taken by someone he had met only hours prior was a little insane… but it held some appeal. Okay, he was insane for sure. Either way, he needed to talk to Sherlock properly to get to know him better. <em>Then </em>they may discuss it. </p><p>“Because it seems to me he likes you,” Greg had said calmly, as John’s head had whipped around to squint at his grunkle. “What?”</p><p>“Please don’t play the matchmaker.”</p><p>“Well, okay. Sherlock didn’t say that outloud. In fact, he wasn’t very talkative at all. But I have a feeling. In my guts. You know how idioms go.”</p><p>“You’re ridiculous,” John had shook his head in mock disbelief. “I don’t even know where he is.”</p><p>“Upstairs,” Greg had jerked his chin to the floors above. “Rushed off a while ago to study chemistry but I think he just got tired of me.”</p><p>“I don’t blame him,” John had grinned, ducking to avoid getting hit by a spatula Greg had thrown at him. </p><p>“Little bastard, what about my self-esteem?” Greg had sobbed fakely, shoving John with his elbow. If it weren’t for Mrs Hudson coming in at that moment, there surely would have been plates and cups breaking. </p><p>Both men had excused themselves afterwards, and John had jogged up upstairs where he got the brilliant idea to go see Sherlock in the attic room. And, uhm… That happened, and now he stood there, smiling to himself like an idiot. Which he most likely was, because… damn, he may be in trouble. </p><p>Big trouble. </p><p>Trouble called Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>When he realised he had been standing in Sherlock and Irene’s room for a few minutes, he kicked himself and strolled back downstairs. He made his way to the living room where Greg sat in his old armchair, changed into khaki shorts and a white tank top, soda can in hand. God, he was drinking a lot of sweet stuff. How come his teeth didn’t decay and rot yet?</p><p>“Sup. Wanna join?” Greg asked, not prying his eyes away from the television. There was an ad about llama milk and where to buy it (at the shop, duh), and then, shockingly enough, a scheduled program came on, twenty minutes late. </p><p>John grunted a response and deposited himself on the springy sofa next to the armchair. He put arms behind his head to relax. He growled when Greg’s fingers flicked him in the ear, twisting his neck just enough that he could stick his tongue out at him. </p><p>“Had a nice chat?” Greg started, then sipped from the can, slurping loudly as he did so. John’s left eye twitched at the sound. </p><p>“Considering that I startled him out of his deep reading focus, I have no fucking clue,” John sighed, a bit more dramatically than he intended to. </p><p>“I think it’s just the fact that he forgot Mrs Hudson’s tools in the forest,” Greg huffed, offering John a sip from his soda. He accepted, swallowing a large gulp of the sugary liquid. He winced as the bubbles scratched his throat and roof of his mouth. </p><p>“Christ, how can you drink this stuff?”</p><p>Greg shrugged, suddenly pulling a bag of chips out of nowhere. That made John sit up in earnest anticipation of getting some for himself. Greg opened the bag and he snatched it far from John’s reach as he dug his hand in it to be the first to eat. Only when his mouth was stuffed did he let John take the chips too. </p><p>“How generous of you to share this meal with me,” John said sarcastically, taking more chips than he planned originally just to piss his grunkle off. Said grunkle glared at him, but said nothing. </p><p>“Don’t take Sherlock running off personally,” Greg said, switching the channels. John sucked in a breath, preparing himself mentally for the inevitable relationship talk. <em>Ridiculous</em>. “He does that all the time when he gets overwhelmed. Apparently. I wouldn’t know. But Millie told me his mind is running at hundred different tangents constantly, so yeah.”</p><p>“I’ve noticed,” John snorted, biting on a potato chip. Hmm, sweet paprika flavoured. “I didn’t mean to spook him, though. It’s just that we didn’t have much time to talk when I got here earlier, and now that he was reading and didn’t hear me, I thought I’d come in and just start a conversation. But. That didn’t work out.”</p><p>“Oh don’t worry, dear,” Mrs Hudson cut in, taking off her pink silk scarf she used as a headband. “Greg and I thought we could have a proper dinner tonight, all of us together. I’m sure you’ll have time to talk to Sherlock and Irene then.” </p><p>Mrs Hudson gave him a sincere smile as she walked over to him, arms open and inviting. John got up and hugged her, greeting her properly. He hadn’t had the time before while she was working around the Shack, having exchanged only a couple words regarding Greg’s smoking. </p><p>“Hello, Mrs Hudson,” he said, tightening the hug a little before letting go. The upkeeper patted his cheek tenderly as she sat next to him on the sofa. </p><p>“I’m glad to see you back!” the woman said, leaning into the cushions. She put her feet up on the coffee table, wriggling her sore toes. “It’s been getting awfully unintelligent without a doctor around and those tourists coming and going.”</p><p>“I’m only a med student, Mrs Hudson,” John reminded her, poking Greg to pass him the bag of chips again. “I’m glad to be back too. But you didn’t have to cook us dinner. Right, Greg? I thought you said you wanted to start cooking yourself.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t be silly, John,” Mrs Hudson said, swatting him on the arm. “You know he’d burn the Shack down if that were the case.”</p><p>“You know we’re in the same room and I can hear you?” Greg said bitterly, scowling at the both of them. He put his empty soda can on the floor next to his feet as he turned his body sideways to look at them. “I’m not that bad of a cook, you know? I make pretty decent pancakes. And scrambled eggs. And doughnuts.”</p><p>“But of course, Greg,” Mrs Hudson placated lightly, winking at John who snickered into his hand so that Greg didn’t see. </p><p>Greg rolled his eyes and didn’t fight the truth. John had actually seen him cook while Mrs Hudson wasn’t working here, and it was pretty decent from what he recalled. Except on more than two occasions, the scrambled eggs were a tad too salty or just slightly overcooked to the point of smoke and fire…. But no, Greg wasn’t nearly as incompetent as Mrs Hudson and him liked to joke a lot when it came to his cooking prowess. He was easily distracted, that’s all. Although…. Yeah, best not to risk it anytime soon. </p><p>Out of the blue, a loud screeching sound and a distant thud of things falling to the ground roused everyone in the living room. Greg swore, earning a swat on the shoulder from Mrs Hudson as John jumped to his feet that mechanically led him outside. </p><p>“Oh dear, I hope it’s not the wildlife again,” Mrs Hudson murmured, following John to the back porch where they saw Sherlock next to the upkeeper’s shed. He was standing frozen to the spot in front of a tall animal with a wide pair of antlers. “Oh, deer.”</p><p>Both Sherlock and the deer stood without moving a muscle, eyes fixed on each other, postures like statues. John noticed that Sherlock was clutching the chemistry book (or whatever it was, maybe a diary?) under his vest close to his chest. The deer’s front hoof clicked against the hard, dry ground as it imperceptibly shifted its weight on its long, thin legs, joints swaying slightly. </p><p>“Sherlock?” John said steadily, though not too loud as to startle the animal. Greg told him about some of the hunts he had witnessed as a young boy, and a certain deer didn’t go down without a fight, having gone after its hunter and biting his arm like a pitbull. John sure as hell didn’t want to see something like that happen to Sherlock in front of him if it could be helped. </p><p>“It’s staring at me,” Sherlock said back, back rigid and straight as a rod. A concerned frown creased his forehead, unsure of what to do in order to avoid getting impaled by wildlife. “Help?”</p><p>John looked at Mrs Hudson, who observed the scene with raised eyebrows, not doing as much as sweat at the sight. She tapped her chin with her forefinger as if coming up with an escape plan for Sherlock. </p><p>Just as John took a step forward to carefully go grab the hose as to spray the deer back into the forest (no one said anything about wise plans, but he liked to go with ‘<em>Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.</em>’), Greg shut the door open with a <em>pang</em> and the deer - who, in the meantime creeped closer to Sherlock in order to properly sniff him - lifted his head to look at the not-so-formally-clothed Canadian Mystery Man™.. </p><p>“Hey!” Greg shouted, and the deer snorted uncomfortably. “You again? I thought I told you to leave the shed alone!”</p><p>John shot Mrs Hudson a ‘<em>What the hell?</em>’ look, but she shook her head as she eyed Greg who grew more agitated by the seconds. Sherlock also turned his head around, eyebrows arched in wonder about what was coming next. </p><p>Greg marched past John, carrying a fly swatter as he aimed it at the deer in question. “You heard me! I don’t know why the fuck you think petrol smells nice, but I sure as hell ain’t going to let you get high on the fumes! Off you go! Shoo!”</p><p>John’s feet moved on their own as he ran after Greg, who fearlessly walked up to the deer, essentially putting himself between the animal and Sherlock, who’s eyes were wide as saucers as the insane Canadian defended him. The deer took the hint and reluctantly turned towards the forest, although not before peering into the shed’s window and inhaling sharply. </p><p>“I said shoo, you foul junkie!” Greg shouted again, swatting the deer on its left hind leg. And finally, the deer left, letting out a disappointed grunt as the forest flora embalmed it. </p><p>“Since when are you Dr. fucking Dolittle?” John said incredulously when Greg whirled around, satisfied. “What the fuck was this about?”</p><p>“Boys! Language!” Mrs Hudson scolded them, returning inside the Shack with a huff when they ignored her. </p><p>Greg shrugged, using the fly swatter to scratch an unreachable spot on his back. “Dunno, but this guy has been coming and sniffing our petrol for the past few months. And I’ve no clue what to do about him. I know bears in Siberia get high on the fumes, but I never thought I’d see a deer become an oil junkie in my life.”</p><p>“That makes two of us,” Sherlock murmured, coming down from his initial shock. He lowered his head and ran a hand through his curly hair. “I returned Mrs Hudson’s nails and hammer and when I came out, the deer was…. there. Standing still seemed like the best course of action. It knocked over a few things.”</p><p>Greg patted him on the shoulder, throwing the boy off-balance as he wasn’t expecting it. “Good thinking, you never know with these bastards.” </p><p>“You okay, Sherlock?” John asked, brows drawn in a concerned frown.</p><p>“Yep,” Sherlock nodded, looking anywhere but at John or the man that saved him with a fly swatter and rough language. “I should go, Mum said she wanted to call from wherever they are right now.”</p><p>“Better not keep her waiting, then,” Greg said, scratching the tip of his nose. Sherlock gave a firm nod and started walking back towards the house, left hand pressed against the book resting against his chest. “Ay! And dinner is at seven! So come down, alright? Or I’ll send John to fetch you, whatever works.”</p><p>“I’ll be there,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, not turning once to look at them. John stood there, biting the inside of his cheek. Was Sherlock avoiding him? Did he put him off by his earlier inquiries? God, small talk should be illegal. It fucks things up. </p><p>He let out an irritated sigh, and he registered Greg putting an arm around him. “Hey, he’ll come around. I bet you wouldn’t be the happiest if a deer that size stared you down.”</p><p>“True, I wouldn’t,” John nodded, thinking of a way to make Sherlock talk. It’s not like he wanted to pursue him, despite finding him pretty attractive. He just wanted them to be friends, if possible. Sure, he knew a few peeps from around here, but having fresh faces here to whom he could show the town? That could be fun. He and Greg used to explore Reichenbach Falls when he was a kid, but the travels and adventures became less frequent as years progressed and Greg’s business with the Shack expanded. </p><p>John missed the fooling around, but he and Greg still managed to find time for other leisurely, albeit questionably stupid activities. Yeah, that year when they prank called the neighbourhood and the police showed up… Well, it was definitely a lesson from life. </p><p>“Come on, then,” Greg nudged him towards the porch. The sun was setting, painting the sky above the pine trees to orange and soft pink. Crickets have begun their serenades, and frogs croaked their way across pathwalks to their lakes. “<em>Dog-dective Doug</em> is due in five minutes. Let’s make some popcorn.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whew! This is just the premise of Greg being a... Disney princess.... You'll see :p<br/>Fun fact: The deer junkie was a spontaneous addition while I was editing, and I'll be honest - I love it. To quote Dee: "I JUST IMAGINED THAT STONED LOOK ON A DEER, IT'S PRICELESS" - I have a screenshot for proof. So. This happened :D<br/>Also, John overthinking his Canadian charms and Greg having his back, that's what grunkles are for! And Irene got a glance at John herself, to, you know, assess the situation ;)<br/>Hope you liked it!<br/>And don't worry, the guys won't avoid each other forever &gt;:3</p><p>Comments are encouraged and 100% appreciated! :D<br/>Next update coming on the 15th! We're finally getting closer to our first mystery case, too!<br/>See you soon~</p><p>Updated: 10.9. 2020<br/>Word count: 5765</p><p>My tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's tumblr (she did our fanart and will do more! check her out, she's amazing!): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p> </p><p>Thank you for reading and I wish you all a nice day/ night wherever you are~</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Pixie Cut IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Sherlock is suspicious and Irene gets fed up</p><p>episode 1 chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello and welcome back to Reichenbach Falls! We're almost at the end of episode 1! :) can't wait to jump onto episode 2 next week! <br/>Also, thank you everyone who commented, gave kudos, and overall gave this fic a bit of their time and read it, it means a lot to me &lt;3 I appreciate you all greatly!<br/>Special thanks to Dee and Bee who beta read for me, I love you two crazy women &lt;3<br/>Enjoy some little sibling angst!</p><p>A lil' disclaimer: I absolutely love goths, anything regarding goths in this chapter isn't supposed to sound offensive or bad, just a tad silly for entertainment purposes, I love their aesthetic :3 and so does Sherlock!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock texted Irene something along the lines of ‘<em>Where in the bloodiest of hells are you?</em>’ precisely five minutes and twenty-two seconds ago. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. </p><p>With a heavy sigh, he knelt besides the bed and picked up his pyjamas and stuffed it under his fluffed-up pillow. <em>Of course</em> she had to go, fetch herself a date, and leave him alone in this trap full of pretty boys and an insufferable scammer. Mrs Hudson, he didn’t mind at all - the woman was an angel, and she was the most loving, caring, badass person in the radius of the whole town when it came to the adults-over-forty population. Plus, he managed to return her tools before she had the chance to notice his error and stare him down, phew!</p><p>He drummed his long fingers atop his bedside table, the hollow sound hypnotizing his thoughts for a brief moment as he settled on his knees. Somewhere down in the rooms of this house Lestrade and John were stuffing themselves full of partially-burnt popcorn before dinner. How Mrs Hudson hasn’t scolded them yet, he didn’t know. </p><p>For a while he contemplated excusing himself from the dinner for the sake of avoiding John and more small talk that was simply inevitable at this point, but after giving it some thought he realised that Mrs Hudson would drag him down by his ear if he refused to participate. She prepared lasagna and then two kinds of pies: apple and blueberry, and hell would freeze over before she let that go to waste or get cold. </p><p>Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face with the knuckles of his hands. There was no escape. Curse this. A more in-depth conversation with John Watson was inevitable, too. And worse, what if he turned out to be interesting and intelligent and even more captivating? That would be his utter defeat. That would mean that <em>Irene was right</em>.Which would be alright if it didn’t concern Sherlock’s <em>bloody love life</em>. </p><p>Sigh. How did he end up here?</p><p>
  <em>Ping!</em>
</p><p>He nose dived for the phone that rested leisurely at his neatly folded duvet. It was bad if he resorted to cleaning his bed and the space around it. Irene’s reply was short and to the point: ‘<em>None of your business</em>’ without full stop at the end of the sentence and an emoji sticking out its tongue. This was debilitating.</p><p>He checked the time in the upper left corner of his phone screen. Half an hour to go. Did dates usually take this long? He wouldn’t know, he’s never been to a proper date… Hm. And <em>who</em> exactly did Irene go on a date with? She’s had her fair share of women to date during both semesters, but none of it was serious. Irene didn’t seem to mind that too much as she was usually the life of the party if she chose to attend any. </p><p>Sherlock decided not to dwell on this, and he got up to stretch his legs. He paced up and down the length of the room, his socks gathering static electricity as he shuffled on the carpet. Boredom has slowly washed itself on the shore of his consciousness, and his skin prickled and itched with the desire to do <em>something</em>. His body automatically turned to where he hid the journal (his suitcase, right beneath his carefully arranged socks), but he stopped himself from moving an inch. No, not now. He couldn’t risk anyone (John) walking in on him reading it again. He’ll leave it for the dark of the night, studying its contents. And if Irene had anything against him using his bedside lamp, she can shove it. It’s not like she’s too considerate of Sherlock’s needs to sleep when she calls with her fashionista classmates.</p><p>Mrs Hudson’s warm voice lulled him from his thoughtful trance, reminding him of the upcoming, dreadful dinner. Actually, the food will be delicious, that was a given. But ugh… the social interaction? Ew. What was Mummy thinking? And why did he agree? If he knew that going to Oregon for two months consisted of a shabby Shack, disastrous feelings, and junkie deer getting high on petrol fumes, he’d reconsider. On the other hand, if he refused, he’d never have stumbled upon the mystery journal. And John Watson.</p><p>Decisions, decisions, all of them (mostly) wrong.</p><p>Another insistent call of his name from Mrs Hudson reached his ears. Sherlock sighed, putting his shirt vest on again - an armour to his persona that granted him silent comfort when he had to deal with acquaintances. </p><p>Sherlock straightened out any creases that may have occured while he haphazardly tossed the vest on his bed when he came in, turning in the dusty, full-length mirror that sat tilted against the corner of the attic. Once he was satisfied with his <em>dress to impress</em> look of fake confidence, he nodded at his reflection and said, “Into battle, then.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>The bed creaked as Irene’s weight dipped on the old mattress. Sherlock watched his sister untangle her dark hair from the fishtail braid Kate tied it into earlier, his own body fidgeting on the carpet. </p><p>“I had no idea we were having dinner tonight,” she said, worrying her lip. It was currently half past eleven, and Irene had finally bothered to come back from her stupid date. </p><p>“Mrs Hudson saved you a plate,” Sherlock supplied unwillingly, but he had promised the upkeeper to tell Irene when it was obvious she wouldn’t be at the Shack for a couple hours more. If it were purely on him, he’d tell his step-sister to go to sleep and starve. Harsh? Undoubtedly. Was Sherlock angry? Absolutely. Did he care? Nope. </p><p>“You sound like death,” Irene joked, letting an amused grin paint her lips. The red lipstick she chose to go with at the start of the day faded as she didn’t bother to reapply it. </p><p>“I feel like death,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling completely drained. </p><p>Dinner was…. an okay affair, as it turned out, but that was mainly thanks to the food. Mrs Hudson was an exceptional cook, and Sherlock couldn’t imagine eating anything else, ever. Lestrade had it good, and Sherlock vowed that if he ever did as much as to criticise the upkeeper, he’d take matters into his own hands. </p><p>Other than that, he still wished he hadn’t attended. He was seated opposite John next to Lestrade, whose table manners were surprisingly adequate contrary to what he had expected. The dreadful part began as soon as the conversation flowed akin to an aggressive river that wanted nothing else but to drown Sherlock. </p><p>At first it was only Lestrade commenting on the business and how the tourists were getting stupider by the day, exponentially raised by the heat the sun emitted. A strange analogy, but Sherlock saw where he was coming from; he was of the same opinion, the only difference being he was skeptical of other people’s mental prowess most of the year, not just during a certain season. However, he still hasn’t decided what to think of Lestrade’s ability to scam tourists so efficiently. How did he do it? He hadn’t the time to witness one of his tours yet, but maybe it was just dumb luck. Quite literally. </p><p>Speaking of the museum, Sherlock only spared it a glance these past two days. The whole ground floor area along with the gift shop seemed a little off to him, but he couldn’t put his finger on as to <em>why</em> it set his senses off. It may just be that the museum was full of half-arsed exhibits that were badly glued together to form a monster of attraction, or that Lestrade jumped him in the morning with a monkey mask on. (Sherlock neither screamed nor yelled, his throat just gave a guttural sound of perplexion, that’s a fact.)</p><p>Problems at dinner started when the conversation steered towards university. Mrs Hudson animatedly talked about John’s achievements, him being a med student on a scholarship, him being very studious - all of which were kind of obvious already to Sherlock when his brain rebooted. Sherlock politely nodded and tried to blend in with the wallpaper behind him. His wish to acquire chameleon genetics didn’t manifest, though, because the moment Mrs Hudson was done boasting about John (who timidly begged the woman to stop on multiple occasions and he got promptly ignored), she asked about Sherlock’s university time. His answers were to the point, not giving her much to inquire about, but she found a way around it anyway. It was fairly obvious she was trying to get Sherlock converse with John, but the former played indifference and pretended he didn’t recognise the subtleness. </p><p>John was apparently of the same opinion, because after the attic room fiasco he seemed to have backed off a little (and Sherlock wished somewhere inside that he wouldn’t, damnit), but he kept up a cheery front and talked to his grunkle more. </p><p>At last, half an hour later the delicious meals were devoured, cooking skills appreciated, and dishes washed. But the resentment towards Irene’s audacity to leave Sherlock alone here was still prevalent. </p><p>“Earth to Sherlock?” Irene said, waving a hand in front of his eyes. Sherlock blinked, pupils refocusing to his step-sister, her hair free of tangles and wavy. “You got lost in that brain of yours again. I was asking how dinner went.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>“Alright? What does that mean?”</p><p>“Do I look like a dictionary?” Sherlock snapped, running a hand through his curls. His hair was starting to get greasy, but not as much as to require a wash today. Tomorrow, perhaps.</p><p>“Ah, I see,” Irene purred, setting her comb aside. “So, how’s John?”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“That doesn’t cut it, Holmes. Give me the gossip, the observations - oh, yes! What did you observe? Now <em>this </em>is the tea.”</p><p>Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face with his palms. He went to open the triangular window, letting a weak breeze sneak in, doing nothing to lessen the summer heat accumulated in the attic. </p><p>“He’s a medical student, but you probably knew it from Mummy. He is also the caretaker type of person, which, looking back, makes sense since he came to check on me -”</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait - what? John checked up on you?” Irene gasped, crossing her legs under her excitedly. “You’re telling me that <em>now</em>?”</p><p>“I was explaining the events chronologically!” Sherlock said defensively, lowering himself on his duvet. “Plus you weren’t here for most of the day….”</p><p>“Duh, but that’s pretty important!”</p><p>“How am I supposed to know what’s important? I don’t date around like you do!”</p><p>“Rude,” Irene said without a bite, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock refused to meet her gaze. He heard her shift on her bed, springs creaking. “Listen, John seeked you out, don’t you think that’s exciting?”</p><p>“No, I was reading the journal and he interrupted,” Sherlock huffed, not being really mad about it. It was more out of fear that John would find the journal ridiculous, even though Sherlock was certain it wasn’t a fake. Plus, the book said not to trust anyone. “Besides, I don’t see why he would seek me out.”</p><p>“Because he finds you handsome? Attractive?” Irene offered nonchalantly, blowing raspberries into the air. Sherlock glared at the ceiling. </p><p>“Unlikely.”</p><p>“Nope, cut that out. As a fashion student, I say that’s bullshit. You are a pretty face, Sherlock. You have my word.”</p><p>Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow, breaking his annoyance with Irene. “Even if,” he said, “John is just being nice. I told you he has a caretaker personality, it doesn’t mean anything.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“What ‘hm’?”</p><p>“Nothing. I’ll just observe more for myself, then.”</p><p>“Spare me the pain,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Irene threw a pillow at him indignantly. “Let it go, Irene. I’m not suited for romance, even less if it should be a mere summer fling. I wouldn’t be able to do that.”</p><p>Irene’s voice was soft when she spoke. “Don’t say that, Sherlock. You are lovable just like everybody else. And John seems to be up to that…. Sorry, fine, I’ll stop the teasing. For now, anyway. And who says it would be a fling? Believe it or not, there’s something about you two. I can’t say what exactly, but my sixth sense is telling me that you two were made for each other. Like you met yourself before, like in a previous life or something. Maybe even when you were kids  and you just don’t know it - though that’s not possible because John grew up in Canada. Or you met on the streets before and didn’t recognise one another. My point is - just stop being so shy about it!”</p><p>Sherlock sighed and bit his lower lip, letting her words sink in. It was too late for him to think about it now. Romance as a whole was something he never cared to pay much attention to, except for that one time when he was fourteen. That was fine for about a month before it dissipated like a strong acid in water. </p><p>He turned on his back, wiggling higher up on the bed as he set his head on his pillow. He shifted from side to side until he found the right position on his left side. His and Irene’s eyes connected then, his step-sister giving him the look of hope and support. She knew when to back off, even though it didn’t stop her from abandoning the matter completely. She would revisit this topic later, there was no need to pretend, but it at least gave him time to mentally prepare. </p><p>“Good night, Sherlock.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>
  <em>
    <span class="u">July 3</span>
  </em>
</p><p>The next day came and went, slowly, painfully, and alone for the most part. Irene woke up early and left, undoubtedly chit-chatting with customers and Kate in the gift shop. That left Sherlock to his devices, and he contemplated simply cocooning himself in his duvet like larvae and waiting until the summer was over so that he could become a butterfly, grow a pair beautiful purple wings, and fly into the wild until he got attracted by a foreign light and burned to death on impact. Ah, the romanticism of the twenty-first century.</p><p>In a twisted way of the peculiar analogy, the foreign light could be John, by whom he got attracted, but thankfully not burned. Yet. The risk was there, though. And that’s why he had to keep his distance. </p><p>And that’s why Sherlock hadn’t left the attic since seven in the morning when he had awoken, instead opting for reading the journal. Irene had just closed the door as he jerked from the depths of sleep and dreams. She hadn’t returned since then, assuming that she immediately got to socialising. At least there was the warrant that she would let the rest of the household know that he was still asleep and no one would bother him for some time. </p><p>It was now 9:30, and he sat burrowed in his duvet like a gremlin, taking in the forgotten knowledge. There was a very interesting section on aliens and shapeshifters, as well as witchcraft and its folklore in Reichenbach Falls. Witchcraft had, unfortunately, died out with its last witch roughly fifty years ago in the eighties, with no successor known. As such, this passage was therefore useless, with the exception of the time frame - that had given Sherlock an estimation of sorts of how old the author could be or was, but it held no value if he didn’t know when they went missing.</p><p>Eventually, Sherlock turned to a page about a particular creature that haunted his dreams when he was a little boy. </p><p>“Known for their almost pristine skin and personality of a soap opera character with the emotional investment of a russet potato, these creatures can be oftentimes mistaken for…. goths? They have an allergy to garlic, but not fatal - they violently sneeze. Beware the town’s nefarious….” Goosebumps raised themselves on Sherlock’s forearms, and he gripped the journal’s leather tighter.  “Vampires?!”</p><p>He suppressed a shudder at the thought of these creatures existing. No. Nope. Away with this. He was <em>not</em> going to think about this now. Sherlock listed through till he found what he was looking for: Crystal Pops. Like lollipops, but made of natural crystals that granted the licker a bonus physical attribute for five minutes. Side effects included brain hemorrhage, irreparable bone fractures, unexpected mutations, and instant death. Ah yes, this is way better than reading about vampires and their allergies to garlic. </p><p>Glancing at the digital clock on Irene’s bedside table, Sherlock thought it was about time to ‘officially’ wake up. He dressed in blue jeans and a simple white shirt with rolled up sleeves. He didn’t bother putting on socks, it was hot already and he would suffer enough, not having proper shorts to wear. He would have to buy some with Irene’s help. </p><p>Sherlock waltzed into the kitchen, regretfully seeing Lestrade seated behind the table, cigarette in hand. Mrs Hudson was working outside, then. </p><p>“Mornin’ kid,” Lestrade said monotonically, inhaling deeply, holding the nicotine cloud in his lungs for a bit, then exhaling through his nose. The instant relief was visible, and Sherlock related to that. There were free periods between lectures and labs when reality became too much and he needed an out. So, he sneaked behind the closest building and smoked at least three cigarettes in one go. Needs must, what else is there to say?</p><p>Sherlock grunted a response, reaching into the fridge for a carton of whole milk. He poured himself a glass and drank it in three long gulps, refilling it instantly. That will do for breakfast; he didn’t feel like eating. He put the empty glass into the sink for someone else to wash and returned the milk, relishing the smell of smoke in the room. </p><p>It’s been some time since he smoked. Two weeks, to be exact. He had to steal some of those cigarettes. He could buy them, but that required going to a shop, and he was lazy. It’s not like Lestrade was going to notice it - that man smoked so frequently he didn’t bat an eye when there was a cigarette more or less. </p><p>“Any plans for today?” Lestrade asked, extinguishing the cigarette butt on a white china plate he pulled from a cupboard. Sherlock shook his head. </p><p>“Nothing in particular but I have to check a few assignments,” he said, leaning his hip against the counter. Lestrade opened the light blue stained window to let the smoke out before Mrs Hudson came back and found out. </p><p>“Assignments? Isn’t that illegal during summer?” </p><p>Sherlock’s corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “No, but that’s the cross us students have to bear.”</p><p>“I feel sorry for you kids sometimes. Only sometimes, though,” Lestrade said, snickering. He rinsed the china plate along with the milk stained glass, setting it aside on a rack to dry. “Listen, John’s out for a few hours, would you mind helping Kate out in the gift shop? I have tours to give, so I can’t be there myself today.”</p><p>“Will I get a cut of today’s profit?”</p><p>“I’ll let you take one thing from the gift shop, on the house.”</p><p>“Anything?”</p><p>“Yes. Will you take it or do I get to keep all my merch to sell for way too much than it’s worth?”</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>They nodded at each other at the same time, firm understanding. The front door opened and shut, feet tumbling towards the kitchen. Sherlock’s flight or fight response reemerged, alive and screaming, but calmed down when Irene and a goth girl walked in the kitchen. </p><p>“Oh good, you’re here!” she grinned at Sherlock, then at Greg. She jerked her head towards the rest of the house. “John and Mrs Hudson aren’t here?”</p><p>“Nope,” Lestrade said, eyeing the new girl head to toe, eyebrows raised skeptically as he shot Irene a questioning look. He also quickly glanced at Sherlock as if to get any help from him to get what was going on. Sherlock’s shoulders lifted lightly in a clueless manner. </p><p>“Well,” Irene started, unstoppable despite the lack of audience, “that doesn’t matter too much. I just wanted you to say hello to my new girlfriend!”</p><p>Irene and her female companion marched into the kitchen, the goth girlfriend more dragged than gently taken in. The goth girl didn’t smile, her black lips stuck in a neutral grimace. She was wearing shades and her black clothes were covering every inch of her skin, except for some of her face and her hands. She was the complete opposite of Irene, who beamed next to her in pastel coloured skirt and tank top. </p><p>“Hi,” the goth girl said, smiling tightly, showing off her shiny teeth. </p><p>“Hello.”</p><p>“How’s it goin’,” Lestrade and Sherlock said a the same time. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Irene, who smiled even wider and winked at him.</p><p>“We met at this abandoned pond not too far from here,” she explained. Lestrade looked again at Sherlock, who shrugged and stayed silent. Irene squeezed her date’s arm and oohed, “Squishy! Good for cuddling.”</p><p>“Sorry, what’s your name again?” Sherlock said, taking a step forward to inconspicuously take a closer look at Irene’s new ‘girlfriend’. She wore high platform shoes, dressed in all black (the usual goth business), had impeccable make-up look saying ‘Don’t fuck with me’ and a beautifully done manicure. Her nails were onyx black and had tiny skull stickers on top. Sherlock liked her style, but his senses told him there was something off about her - and he thought he saw her hand shake in a weird manner. </p><p>The girl seemed a little startled by the question. “I...Uh… Norma...Normandy.”</p><p>“Such a nice name, isn’t it?” Irene grinned. “We should get going now, Normandy wanted to show me this dark secluded spot deeper in the forest, but we will tag along in the yard for a bit first. I’ll be back at eight!”</p><p>“Have fun, sweetheart,” Lestrade said, checking his phone for notifications, not really listening to her. Sherlock’s gaze followed Normandy out of the house. Something was not right. “Does she date so randomly in Toronto as well?”</p><p>“Even more so,” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his neck. Normally he didn’t give a damn about Irene’s love life - but presently, an unpleasant idea has etched itself in his brain. <em>Who</em> was Normandy? Goths were people like any other, if with a heightened sense of fashion, but…. No, he has to gather evidence to support his sense of wrongness. </p><p>He trailed the stairs to the attic, mind racing but blank all at once, when suddenly the dots connected as his eyes fell on the journal. Goths…. Russet potatoes….. VAMPIRES?!</p><p>Sherlock sprinted to the red-and-purple window, almost tripping over a crease in the carpet as he dashed across the room to get a look at Irene and Normandy. They were in the yard standing by Mrs Hudson’s flower beds, both women holding hands. However, Normandy was shielded from the sun by the shadow the upkeeper’s shed cast on her, and only Irene basked in the sunrays. </p><p>Moreover, the goth girl resiliently stared at Irene even when Sherlock’s step-sister paid attention elsewhere. Irene chirped endlessly, Normandy nodding here and there, but never directly participating in the conversation. Her hands stayed in her pockets, but as soon as Irene looked away a second time, Sherlock saw the other girl grin, the previously only white teeth now also pointy and quite sharp. Or maybe that was the distance and light deceiving him. Either way, it freaked him out, and…. </p><p>Normandy took a stand in front of Irene in the shadow that obstructed Sherlock’s view of Irene, and the goth girl leaned in, arms drawing around his step-sister’s neck. She took something out of her pocket. Sherlock’s heart raced, and he frantically tapped his knuckles against the stained glass in hopes of getting Irene out of her love-struck reverie. </p><p>Damnit! He shouldn’t be wasting time in the attic when there is a potential vampire about to suck the ever-living essence out of Irene’s veins!</p><p>And then all of a sudden, Normandy stepped back, Irene beaming at her. Sherlock’s eye fell on a new necklace that hung around her neck. Oh. </p><p>“Is she actually dating a vampire or am I going bonkers because of the journal?” Sherlock said aloud to no one in particular, running a hand through his messy curls. </p><p>“It’s a right dilemma, isn’t it?” said Mrs Hudson from beside him. Sherlock jumped back, startled by the intrusion. Mrs Hudson gave him a tight smile. She was standing on a small stool holding a broom, sweeping cobwebs away. How didn’t he notice or hear her come in? “I couldn’t help but overhear your little monologue. It always seemed like the right place for such occasions, this room. It has the right amount of drama to it, I’d say.”</p><p>“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock considered, weighing his options. He had the journal as proof that something was up in this town, and he never particularly cared what people thought of him, although it did warn him to watch out for who to trust. To hell with it, she had already heard him. “You must’ve already seen Irene’s new...date, then, right? Doesn’t she seem like a…. vampire to you?”</p><p>“Hm, how many people’s blood did you see her drink?” she said after a bit of thinking. Fastening a screwdriver back to her belt.</p><p>“... Zero,” Sherlock reluctantly admitted. </p><p>“Well, then,” she pursed her lips and stomped on a spider that fell out of its spiderweb above. “Listen, Sherlock, I do believe you -”</p><p>“Really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow skeptically.</p><p>“-I do, too, notice weird things happening around this silly town. For example, Mrs Turner always says she uses homemade frosting for her cupcakes, but I’ve seen it - it’s pure garbage from that cheap store on the corner for less than ten cents. She’s a right miser and a sodding menace, pardon my saying.”</p><p>Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. This was getting tedious. He’s never even met Mrs Turner to care about the gossip!</p><p>“But my point is,” Mrs Hudson said, picking up on his soured mood. “You’ve got to have evidence, otherwise these kooks won’t believe a word you’re saying. And even if she were a vampire, she could always be one of the cute ones, like in that movie. What was it called - ah, yes, Twilight? It was so nice seeing them sparkle for once instead of crumbling to ashes and leaving a mess for someone else to clean up.”</p><p>“Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>“You know, that’s another good point,” she continued, stepping down from her stool. She had to tilt her head up to look Sherlock in the eyes. There were crinkles around her dark brown, welcoming eyes. “If the girl does turn out to be a vampire, and a dramatic one who bites the dust<em> quite literally </em>at that, do make her die outside on the porch and not in the living room, will you?”</p><p>Sherlock was momentarily stunned by that conclusion, but nodded. </p><p>“Good boy,” she patted him on the cheek. </p><p>“Mrs Hudson!” called Lestrade’s voice from beneath the attic floor. “The sink in the bathroom is clogged again!”</p><p>Mrs Hudson fastened her belt, tucked a stray hair behind her ear and gave Sherlock one last determined look. “Duty calls. Oh, and dinner is at seven like yesterday. I will make roast chicken and potatoes.”</p><p>Sherlock absent-mindedly followed the upkeeper to the stairs, his thoughts racing furiously to come up with a plan. Mrs Hudson was right - research and evidence were key to discovering the truth. So, that’s what he was going to do. </p><p>First things first, Sherlock followed Irene and Normandy’s tracks around the Shack as cautiously as possible, picking up on snippets of dialogues about pop culture and fashion. Again, Irene did eighty-percent of the talking. At around eleven-thirty, Sherlock kept his distance as he trailed after them to a local diner. They went by the bus, and Sherlock masked himself by putting up a giant leaf of newspaper in front of his face. </p><p>When it came to unusual behaviour on Normandy’s part, he noticed how wobbly her legs appeared - though that could be the platform boots. Additionally, her arms spasmed every few minutes, or was that just a nervous tick or the bump the bus drove over? Irene was, of course, oblivious to all of it. Her date didn’t try to get near her neck again, though. Maybe Sherlock’s paranoia was really undeserved. </p><p>Eventually, Sherlock grew tired of tracking Irene and Normandy, and his phone battery almost ran out. He recorded the goth girl over his shoulder trying to be sneaky, and succeeding fairly well. Or so he thought. </p><p>Five minutes past twelve, just as he settled on the carpet in his thinking position - palms stapled together in a praying motion tucked under his chin - Irene barged in, cheery as ever. Sherlock pretended to be lost in thought, but the nudge of her foot snapped him out of it. “There you are, stalker.”</p><p>Sherlock’s head snapped up to see Irene stare at him amusedly, if with a hint of irritation behind that smile of hers. He decided to feign ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>Irene’s eyes hardened as she kneeled next to him. “You think I’d miss your two-meters-tall person on a bus? Reading the newspaper? Really, Sherlock. What sane person reads newspapers in public nowadays? If you wanted to tag along you should’ve said so. You know I don’t mind having you around.”</p><p>She had a point. Damnit. This wasn’t some stupid Hollywood movie with cliché prompts he could freely use as an ineffable disguise. What a pity, he was pretty proud of it. </p><p>“Look, Irene,” he said, exhaling sharply. He had to eloquently put forth his concerns despite the lack of evidence. He didn’t have the time to go over the video material he had gathered yet, but if he gets Irene on his side… “We’ve got to talk about Normandy.”</p><p>“Sure, wanna see the love bite she gave me?” Irene said enthusiastically at Sherlock’s horrified expression when she tilted her head for him to see the red mark on her skin where blood was drawn to the surface to form a bruise. “Just kidding, that was an accident with that portable vacuum cleaner Mrs Hudson uses for the golf cart. That was fun.”</p><p>Sherlock could feel the whites of his eyes flash at her while his irises rolled to see the inside of his skull for proof that intelligent life existed. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t think your date is what she seems to be.” He pointed a thumb in the mystery journal’s direction, which got her interest. </p><p>“Wait, you think she may be a supernatural creature? Oh my God, could she be, I don’t know, a mermaid? Wait, that would make some activities more difficult….”</p><p>“No, these are quite obviously near bodies of water, and I don’t see a lake near the Shack. And <em>gross</em>.”</p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p>“That’s what I essentially said!”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, carry on. Who do you think she is, then?”</p><p>Sherlock tucked his fingers under the pages and opened the book in his step-sister’s face. “This!”</p><p>“A pixie?” she raised an eyebrow. </p><p>“What?” he peeked at the page, cursed, and showed her the next page. “<em>This!</em>”</p><p>“A vampire? Seriously? What is this, Twilight?”</p><p>“This is the second time someone referenced that movie,” Sherlock rubbed his eyes. Why did people connect scary concepts with the most recent adaptations and not the more classical stories? </p><p>“It’s not funny, Sherlock.”</p><p>“Of course it’s not, I’m almost never joking,” he glared at her. He paced up and down the room, making quite the noise. “But don’t you see? It all adds up. She’s pale-”</p><p>“You as well.”</p><p>“She’s wearing black to blend in with the shadows-”</p><p>“It’s her style of clothing.”</p><p>“And she has weird spasms and avoids the sun!”</p><p>“<em>You</em> avoid the sun, genius,” Irene said, irritated. She walked up to Sherlock, never breaking eye contact, her lips pursed in a thin, annoyed line. “Now listen to me, you dork. Normandy and I are going on a <em>date </em>at four o’clock, I am going to look <em>gorgeous </em>as <em>always</em>, I’ll wear my <em>cutest </em>jumper and my hair will smell better than <em>your sodding lavender</em>, and Normandy’s going to <em>faint </em>at the sight of me, and I’m <em>not </em>letting you <em>ruin </em>it!” </p><p>With every claim about her upcoming date, she pushed Sherlock backwards until he hit the closet door. </p><p>“Don’t you remember what the book said about this town?” he hissed at her, wishing to intimidate her back somehow as much as she did him. She didn’t back off. “Trust no one!”</p><p>“Does that include me?” she said, her features softening ever so slightly. The look in her eyes was hurt, and Sherlock hated himself for enticing it. “Why can’t you trust me to handle it myself? If she does turn out to be a vampire, I’ll grab the nearest stick and stab her, no problem. I did it last year, you know. I stabbed Dereck Horrowitz with a fork because he wouldn’t leave us alone in the cafeteria and kept catcalling you.”</p><p>“Horrowitz didn’t try to drink our blood, Irene!” Sherlock said, growing frustrated. It was now Irene’s turn to roll her eyes into another dimension for a sign of rationality. </p><p>“You’re insufferable,” she said, putting hands on her hips. “I don’t have time for this. Get out of the room, I have to get ready for my date.”</p><p>And with that she pushed him out and slammed the doors on him, turning the key in the lock.</p><p>Sherlock was forced to wander around the Shack for most of the afternoon, still in his pyjamas. He heard Irene rushing upstairs so loudly he had the whole upper floor mapped out just by the sounds of their creaky floor. When the digital clock in the shape of a racoon head striked four, Irene rushed to the ground floor, tying the sleeves of a pink hoodie around her waist. She loudly announced she is leaving to no one in particular ignoring Sherlock, and shut the door with a bang. </p><p>Sherlock peeked from the archway, trailing the hallway, barefoot. He turned left and immediately collided with something - someone - solid. He bounced back, his knees giving out from the scare. </p><p>“Shit, sorry! Fuck, I shouldn’t swear - ugh, shit, I did it again - nevermind, ignore me. Are you alright? I didn’t see you coming in.” He crashed with John. Great. So much for avoiding him. He had been doing so well after the dinner awkwardness.</p><p>Before Sherlock could reply, John seized him by the arms and pulled him up with his strong arms, smiling shyly. “John, don’t worry,” Sherlock managed. He must admit that from up close, his smile was even nicer. “I’m alright. I didn’t see you either.”</p><p>He scratched at his elbow, which was a little sore from hitting the floor, but the collision overall was minor. </p><p>“You’re sure everything’s fine?” John asked, scanning Sherlock’s face. “I heard you and Irene having a brawl. I mean, I don’t mean to pry, but she seemed a little pissed off when she left for her date? When did she even get a date?”</p><p>Sherlock scowled. “Of course the walls are paper thin. She met Normandy yesterday.”</p><p>“Good for her I guess. Sorry, I know it’s none of my business,” John said, rubbing the backside of his neck. “I just heard your raised voices, that’s all.”</p><p>“It’s fine, don’t apologise,” Sherlock said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. </p><p>“Anyway, I’m going out to hang up some fliers for the Shack. Do you want to join me? I know we didn’t exactly start with the right foot, but I can show you around the town, since you’re here for the first time and…”</p><p>He trailed off, leaving space for Sherlock to decide. There was a hopeful spark in his eyes Sherlock couldn’t quite interpret. He got lost in the caramel brown, the delicious honeycomb amber which hypnotized him beyond the realm of recognition. He contemplated it for a second, but decided against it. </p><p>“Ah, no, sorry,” he said hazily, kicking himself internally. If he really didn’t have this ‘crush’ as Irene so lamely titled it, then what was the problem tagging along with John? That’s an issue for another day or later tonight, he decided. “I need to… tidy up my clothes. They’re scattered all over our bedroom floor. And I’m sure Irene left a mess too.”</p><p>John nodded, lips pressed in a thin line. Sherlock couldn’t read his expression as openly as he did Irene, but they both let it be. “Okay, let me know if you need anything, though.” He pocketed the keys belonging to the old golf cart and gave Sherlock a passing smile and a pat on the shoulder. Sherlock longed for the physical contact to never end, but it was gone as soon as it began.</p><p>“I will,” Sherlock returned the smile curtly. He stumbled into the kitchen. Plopping down onto a chair, he took out his phone and scrolled through his gallery. He’ll have to reevaluate what to do regarding John Watson. It was impossible to avoid him the whole summer. And… perhaps it won’t be as bad?</p><p>Sherlock tapped on a video he took of Irene and Normandy hours prior. Perhaps this was indeed a stretch fueled by the discovery of the mystery journal and nothing deeper. </p><p>“Mrs Hudson was right, I don’t have any evidence to prove myself,” he mumbled miserably. He watched a video where Irene was sipping a milkshake in the town’s diner. Normandy was sitting next to her, a hint of smile on her black lips. Irene turned to pay for her stuff and Normandy’s teeth fell out of her mouth. She hastily picked them up and stuffed them back inside, positioning them in place with her tongue. Sherlock gasped and clutched the phone tighter. “It WHAT-”</p><p>He quickly rewound the video and watched the ordeal again - her teeth fell out as if it were Mrs Hudson’s prosthetic dentals, which was both appalling and scary.</p><p>Sooner than he was able to register, he bolted out into the hallway, struggling to get his shoes on his bare, cold feet. He cursed, rushing to fetch the mystery journal and in the meantime he called out to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but both were absent and no reply came. He ran out on the porch, sighing in relief when he saw John loading up a box with leaflets onto the golf cart’s passenger seat. </p><p>“John? John!”</p><p>The blond looked up, his face lighting up and Sherlock’s stomach fluttered at the sweet sight. “Changed your mind?”</p><p>Sherlock hopped over the railing that fenced the porch and ran up to him. “John, I need to borrow the golf cart to save my dating-crazed step-sister from her blood sucking vampire romantic interest!”</p><p>He was breathing heavily, the adrenaline built up fast. He thought John may dismiss him as the crazy one, but he just stared at him, eyebrows lifted. He breathed in and Sherlock sucked in a breath, preparing to be laughed at.</p><p>“Sorry, ehm…” His shoulders fell, head bobbing down in embarrassment. </p><p>“Alright, let’s go.”</p><p>Sherlock’s neck snapped up. What?</p><p>“Come on, if it really is a vampire we have no time to spare,” John said, shoving the box full of fliers out of the passenger seat. He motioned for Sherlock to sit down and started the engine. Sherlock didn’t hesitate and they were immediately on their way. </p><p>They weren’t planning on getting stopped by Mrs Hudson, though.The upkeeper hailed them as John was driving reverse to get on the road. “Oh, so it came to hunting the pretty goth girl down? Take this,” she handed them a shovel.</p><p>“Thanks,” John said, putting the shovel between him and Sherlock. He didn’t seem too fazed by this.</p><p>“Oh, also this, in case you meet Mrs Turner,” the woman added and threw Sherlock an air freshener spray. “She started wearing a horrible perfume recently, you may need it to breathe afterwards.”</p><p>The two boys looked at each other quizzically and ensured Mrs Hudson they would watch out for her frenemy. She waved them goodbye as John hit the gas.</p><p>“Brief me in, will you?” he said, throwing Sherlock a curious glance, then turning to watch the road.</p><p>So Sherlock did.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whev, everyone! They finally talk without being lil' shy bitches about it!! And all it took was a possible vampire threat, hah...<br/>And there's more comin' our way ;)<br/>Don't you love how Mrs Hudson just rolls with all those impossible shenanigans? I certainly love writing her like that, trashing Mrs Turner and her cheap perfumes and frosting, handling shovels out left and right :D</p><p>Comments are as always encouraged and 100% appreciated! :3<br/>Next update on the 20th, we're solving this case!<br/>See you later~</p><p>Updated: 15.9. 2020<br/>Word count: 6746</p><p>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's tumblr (she does our fanart and many more!): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading/ visiting, and have a nice day/ night!</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Pixie Cut V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which they get pixie-cut</p><p>episode 1, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome back to the Grand Finale of episode 1! I wonder what will happen? :)</p><p>I would like to thank anyone reading this on, well, reading this! Thank you for the kudos, comments, hits, everything! It all makes me fuzzy and happy inside, hehe, especially now that biology and chemistry seminars are stressing me tf out :D</p><p>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, who beta read this and gave their nod of approval &lt;3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene and Normandy walked down an unfamiliar path leading through the colourful forest. Birds were chirping in the trees above; rays of sunshine penetrated the tall crowns of pine trees and gave the scenery a dreamy, watercolour effect that would be perfect to photograph and print on a postcard. </p><p>They weren’t holding hands, but Irene had no need to do so as of now. What she needed to do was examine Normandy’s nail polish - it was magnificent. Before she could take action herself, though, Normandy beat her to it.</p><p>“Irene,” she said, fidgeting next to her. She cast Irene a wavering glance, shoulders hunching over shyly. “I would like to tell you something.”</p><p>Irene pouted, thinking what it may be about. “Of course. Is it something serious? I won’t laugh at you.” Suspicion prickled in the back of her mind and she thought back to her row with Sherlock earlier. She quickly pushed it out of her mind. Pfft, so what if Normandy <em>was </em>a vampire? She could be like Edward Cullen and she could be like Bella (with more character development, though…. and personality that didn’t resemble bland cardboard). Yeah, that could work!</p><p>“Well… Just don’t freak out, please,” Normandy almost whispered, turning to face Irene at last. “You are very open minded, keep your cool - for... me?”</p><p>“Anything for you,” Irene smiled and she meant it, however sentimental she was despite the fact that they’ve dated for two days out of the three that she and Sherlock had spent in Reichenbach Falls so far.</p><p>Normandy unbuttoned her long black trench coat she chose to wear today and shrugged it off. She also took off her silk black scarf that covered her hair which left her pixie cut a little dishevelled - or what was left of it.</p><p>“Jesus! What the <em>fuck</em>?!” Irene exclaimed, taking an automatic step back. Normandy was, in fact, a weird mechanical skeleton operated by tiny female-resembling creatures with butterfly-like wings and pink skin. There were three of them, dressed in green leaves tailored to their body type. One was operating the face (that one was sheepishly smiling at her with its tiny, pointy teeth), one was in charge of the skeleton’s arms and the last operated legs. It was almost comical, weren’t it for the fact that she was facing unknown supernatural creatures alone. Dammit. Why was Sherlock always right, even when they’re facing a new concept of magic and similar bullshit?</p><p>“Please, give us a chance to explain this to you!” the top winged-creature begged. Irene motioned for it to continue; she was too stunned to decline. “So, we’re pixies, to make things clearer. My name’s Lala, I’m the brain. The pixie below me is Fala and the legs are… sheesh, sorry girl, your name always escapes me.”</p><p>“Lala, we’re twins,” the pixie facepalmed. “I’m Theophilia, hi.”</p><p>“Right! Anyway, our kind has been very lonely for a <em>very </em>long time,” Lala explained, her blue wings fluttering. Irene was aware she must’ve been wearing a bewildered look on her face, but none of them addressed it. “And we lack the guidance of someone old and wise.”</p><p>“<em>That’s</em> the compliment you’re going for?” Irene barked out a laugh. </p><p>“Yes, because you are someone aspiring, your red aura says so,” Fala added mindfully as her wings twitched up and down. </p><p>“And we need good influence. Today has been the third time this week that Fala bit sister Susan’s head off.”</p><p>“She asked for it. She has one too many.”</p><p>“Undoubtedly, but our point is,” Lala got back on track, “that we are in search of a Mom, and you are very attentive and warm! You’re the nicest human woman we’ve had the opportunity to court for mothership, and we consider you worthy of that role. You would have us on your brilliant conscience and you’d be granted full responsibility over our dubious fae actions. So, what do you say? Will you be our mom, Miss Irene?” The three pixies looked at her expectantly. Irene swallowed her disbelief and gave herself a minute before answering. </p><p>“Uhm, wow. Okay, <em>wow</em>,” she breathed in and out, taking it in. She touched her temple, eyes wide and panicking. “<em>What the fuuuck</em>…. okay, listen up. I enjoyed our time together, I really did - but a mom? What? Sorry girls, but I’m not out of university yet. Whatever you thought, auras don’t give you enough credence to think I would be a good mother. Not at all. I apologise, but I have to politely decline your offer. I don’t want kids in the foreseeable…. <em>never</em>. What could I even teach you? You’re the ones with magical powers and immortal lives, not me. And you kind of lied to me, and I don’t think that’s a good foundation for any relationship. Fuck, I can’t believe I dated masked pixies that weren’t even a vampire in the end.”</p><p>“We understand your point of view,” the pixies nodded in unison two minutes later after they locked their heads together to talk out of earshot. Irene felt better that they took it so tamely. She anticipated a temper tantrum or disintegration by magic. “It’s sad, but alright. We’ll never forget you. Those were the best two and a half days of our lives.”</p><p>Irene’s lips curled upwards. </p><p>“That’s why we’re kidnapping you.”</p><p>Her screams carried throughout the entire forest for everyone with ears to hear. </p><p>~</p><p>Sherlock’s curls bounced with the wind the golf cart’s velocity created as John urged the engine to hurry through the forest. The former listed in the leather-bound journal furiously, brows furrowed in focus. Sodding vampires, he thought. There were weaknesses, but in their haste Sherlock spared no thought to grabbing anything silver, pointy, or holy. </p><p>“Any idea where we’re headed?” John asked, hands firm on the steering wheel. He shot Sherlock an earnest look full of quiet wonder, but unfortunately Sherlock was at loss for the right answers currently. It was surprising John took his word and decided to trust Sherlock’s panic, because the latter would probably be not as easy to convince.</p><p>Sherlock clutched the seat with his right hand when they bumped against a rock and the cart skipped a beat. He barely registered John’s uttered apology as he looked over the darkening forest, his insides squirming with horror thinking what could become of Irene. If anyone had the right to turn her into a creature of the underworld, then it was Sherlock. And no anemic wannabe blood sucker was going to take that right away from him. </p><p>“Vampires were said to have lairs in the northeast part of the woods,” Sherlock said, shutting the journal closed. The road was bumpier and bumpier as they descended to the less frequented pathways. It was a miracle that the cart stayed on it and didn’t tumble into the grass trenches that bordered the road. </p><p>“Not gonna lie, I didn’t think my first time taking you on a tour would be to hunt down Count Dracula like Van Helsing,” John joked, swerving to the left to avoid running over a squirrel with three ears. He didn’t seem to notice the extra body attachment or if he did, he was unbothered. “I can’t believe that the moment new people come over for the summer, one of them gets wooed by a vampire, and the other has a mystery journal he found out in the same forest.”</p><p>“To Irene’s credit, I think she did the wooing,” Sherlock said, smiling as John laughed. </p><p>“She does look like the flamboyant kind of girl,” the blond nodded, slowing down. They both looked up, mouths falling open. </p><p>It was as though night time reigned in this part of the forest. The flora grew so tall and close together that it was dark everywhere, and only luminescent mushrooms and flowers lit the way. Quite a few of them shone brighter than lightbulbs. The view reminded Sherlock of James Cameron’s Avatar, minus the vampires. </p><p>Something shuffled on their right, and soon a deer with a fluorescent tail shot through the silent road, its eyes momentarily glowing in the golf cart’s faint yellow beams that served practically no purpose except attracting attention. </p><p>And then a blood curdling scream startled them out of their dream states like the most abhorrent alarm clock on a Monday morning. </p><p>“It came from that direction!” Sherlock said and John drove the cart where the boy pointed. They delved deeper into the forest, the vegetation growing thicker and the lighting darker. </p><p>“I think I see them!” John said, squinting into the distance. Their eyes met and John gave him a reassuring smile. “She’ll be fine, don’t worry.”</p><p>“I’m not,” Sherlock lied. Irene was capable of kicking ass, that much was true, but they were dealing with an undead creature of the night - this was different and very new.</p><p>John stopped the cart not too far from a clearing where they could see Irene struggling against ropes that were thrown at her by… pixies?</p><p>“The more you struggle, the more awkward it will be,” said a pixie hovering over his step-sister’s head. </p><p>“I don’t give one flying - <em>ouch!</em> - you little - get off me!” She swatted one pixie away and slapped another into oblivion. </p><p>“What in the fuck of all saints is going on here?” John said, getting out of the cart. He ducked as one of the swatted pixies flew by, hissing at him, sharp teeth shining dangerously in the low light. </p><p>“Sherlock!” Irene shouted when she saw him from behind the swarm of the winged creatures. “Normandy was three pixies in a goth trench coat and they’re all little bitches!” She swatted another feral pixie in the face, destroying its perfectly applied makeup as Sherlock took out the mystery journal. </p><p>“Wait,” he told John, who was about to charge in there with the shovel from Mrs Hudson. He stopped, frowning. “Pixies?”</p><p>“I know, I was way off on this one,” Sherlock said reluctantly, not meeting his eyes. Well, this was embarrassing. Nevermind that now, there was Irene Adler to save. He listed through the pages to find the one about pixies. They were natural inhabitants of the forest, but there were no weaknesses listed. </p><p><em>Oh for fuck’s sake</em>.</p><p>When he lowered the book, he saw that the pixies had managed to tie Irene’s hands and legs up. “When I get out of this, I’ll break your fragile little wings off!” she threatened, struggling against the restraints. </p><p>Sherlock tucked the book safely under the cart’s seats and marched forward with John at his heels, Mrs Hudson’s shovel thrown over his shoulder. </p><p>“Hey! Can I get your attention for a moment?” he said loudly. It worked, to his surprise. One pixie monitoring the whole debacle glided over to him and John. </p><p>“Oh, hi, this is awkward,” she giggled. “You’re her brother, right?”</p><p>“Step-brother, yes.”</p><p>“Well,” the pixie fumbled with her thumbs. “Thing is, you shouldn’t have been able to find her. Irene is in no danger, you see. She’s only becoming our Mom and staying with us for all eternity. Right, Mom?”</p><p>“I’ll rip your face off, you-” Her voice was muffled by a purple skinned pixie.</p><p>“Let her go or else,” Sherlock glared the pixie down, trying to look as intimidating as humanly possible. Their faces were centimeters from each other. Three sets of pristine white teeth glistened back at him in a savage smile. </p><p>“You think you can stop us? You have no idea what wrath you are provoking, purple boy. The pixies are more powerful than you could ever wish for! Do not meddle with our-”</p><p>A loud thump and a set of gasps filled the air as John hit the pixie across the head with the shovel. She flew to the side, completely blacked out.</p><p>“Right, I was getting tired of her obnoxious voice,” John said, taking a step forward. He swayed the shovel left and right, dissipating the hive of pixies while Sherlock helped Irene get out of the ropes. </p><p>They hurried back to the cart, not waiting around for the pixies to regain consciousness. The further they were from this cursed part of the forest the better. Sherlock heard one of the creatures yell that they’re getting away, but John was already backing up and driving back to the Shack. </p><p>“We should hurry up before they catch onto us,” Irene said, breathing heavily, her perfect hair a mess now. She kept checking their backs for any signs of the creatures. </p><p>“And what are they going to do? Hiss at us? Nothing John won’t solve with one good swing of Mrs Hudson’s shovel,” Sherlock grinned and John laughed behind the wheel. He avoided Irene’s gaze, although he felt quite comfortable in John’s proximity, trusting himself not to act embarrassing or anything in front of both of them. </p><p>“Yeah, these dolls are <em>tiny</em>,” John agreed. “I would’ve laughed at how the pixie thunked against the grass, but I don’t think that would’ve been appropriate.”</p><p>The sky was bright orange on the horizon, slowly setting down so that night could take over the reins of the little town. John stopped the cart on top of a hill so they could all take a moment to take a short mental rest to process what had just happened. Their adventure seemed to be over.</p><p>But it wasn’t. </p><p>Loud, heavy buzzing echoed through the air, their golf cart trembling with it. They all turned around to see a giant humanoid silhouette cast a long shadow over them. The figure’s long limbs stretched forward to seize them. </p><p>“Go, go, GO!” Irene urged John, but he already hit the gas and they darted off, narrowly escaping a fist that would have smashed the golf cart into mere metal pieces. </p><p>They drove across the forest as fast as the cart’s engine allowed, John skillfully dodging any hits the creature composed of hundreds of pixies threw at them. The pixies seemed to realise they had no luck with this strategy, so they literally started shooting their own members at the three young adults like bullets. Very angry bullets with sharp teeth. </p><p>John grabbed a pixie that landed on the steering wheel by the ankles and threw her out. Simple. Modern problems require modern solutions, after all. Irene and Sherlock did the same, but Sherlock’s step-sister took great delight in banging them against the cart’s interior first before disposing of them. </p><p>“Ah! It’s in your hair!” Irene yelled and smashed Sherlock across the head with the mystery journal. The pixie got squished between the heavy pages and his head, losing consciousness immediately. </p><p>“Ouch!” Sherlock yelped at the sudden assault.</p><p>“Disgusting,” Irene said, clutching the book to her chest. </p><p>“Careful, we don’t want to deal with a concussion,” John said sternly, fishing the pixie from Sherlock’s curls and tossing it into the wilderness. </p><p>“Thanks,” Sherlock said, soothing his scalp. </p><p>“You’re welcome,” both John and Irene said in unison.</p><p>There was a sound of something being ripped from the ground, and seconds later a tall pine tree swooshed past them and blocked their way. John swerved the cart to a different path just in time, cursing under his breath, the rest of them yelling. They were rolling down a hill now. Sherlock recognised the spot where he hung up signs for hikers to see, and in a matter of seconds they crashed onto Lestrade’s yard. John hit the breaks and only very closely did they avoid a collision with the Shack. </p><p>Everyone scrambled out, their legs wobbly from all the adrenaline. The pixie monster caught up with them. Thankfully there were no tourists or anyone else around to witness this. The pixies drew nearer. </p><p>“Where’s Mrs Hudson and Greg when you need them?” John hissed, shielding Sherlock and Irene with his body, backing them back up the Shack’s walls. Sherlock only now noticed that he latched onto John’s arm, his muscles flexing, but more because he was forced to retreat and he almost lost his balance. Not that he minded, but it was a tad distracting. </p><p>“You’ve nowhere else to go now, mortals,” the leader of the hive said. The monster lowered itself on its knees and leaned forward to peer at the trio. “Give us our Mom back and we won’t hurt you.”</p><p>“There’s got to be a way to disperse them,” Sherlock murmured, his mind racing to find a solution.</p><p>Irene stepped forwards from behind John, determination hardening her eyes. “I’ll do it.”</p><p>Sherlock reached after her. “Are you serious? They -”</p><p>“Sherlock,” she said, shutting him up with one <em>look</em>. “I know what the journal said, but just this once - trust me.”</p><p>Sherlock hesitated. He’s been wrong about the vampire, and there were no weaknesses known or documented to help them fight the pixies off. If Irene had a plan, he had to let her try. He pressed his lips tightly and nodded, taking a step back to where John was standing. </p><p>“Yes! Hurray! Everyone, we got ourselves a Mom!” the leader cheered, the rest clapping Irene on. The head of the pixies hovered down and flew in front of Irene, outstretching its small arm, still a part of the giant cluster-monster. “Let’s go, then.”</p><p>Irene smiled sweetly, and took the offered hand in hers. It was at that moment Sherlock noticed her holding a spray can of air freshener Mrs Hudson gave them on their way to her rescue. She must’ve grabbed it when they rolled out of the golf cart. </p><p>The pixie monster began to put its arms around Irene in a strange, buzzing embrace. “Sherlock?” John asked quietly, puzzled. “What do we do?”</p><p>It was then that Irene decided it was time to counter strike. She popped the spray can open and gave the pixie monster a healthy dose of strawberry-tinted canned air right in their faces.</p><p>“This is for lying to me,” - <em>spray</em> - “that’s for breaking my teenage heart,” - spray, spray, <em>spray</em> - “and <em>that’s </em>for attacking my brother’s unruly, angelic curls!”</p><p>She continued spraying the pixies, most of them flying into the sunset, their skin burning and wings wet and heavy with the artificial scent, and Sherlock and John joined the banishment party with the shovel and the journal. Pixies were fired about the yard like baseballs, and John had particular fun with striking home-runs. </p><p>A pixie with blue skin wandered into a spiderweb that hung in a distant corner on the porch, begging for help, her arms, legs, and wings stuck to the silky webs. The last pixie present was the leader. </p><p>Sherlock picked her up by the wings, keeping her at arm's length. John offered Irene the shovel. “Want to do the honours?”</p><p>Irene grabbed it and took her stance. She moved her hips to get ready, staring the pixie down. “Adieu, Lala!” The velocity and the angle at which the pixie disappeared among the trees into the sunset was the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever witnessed.</p><p>“I guess that’s over,” John said, grinning at the two of them. “I suggest we go inside, it’s getting chilly and we all look rather like crap.”</p><p>Sherlock took time to observe the three of them. Indeed, they did look awful. Irene’s hair was a mess, her pink jumper was stained with green from grass and plants she rolled over; John was dishevelled in general and he had minor scratches on his left arm. Sherlock, who didn’t bother to change from his pyjamas before leaving since duty called, had his flannel bottoms ripped and his t-shirt was sweaty and dirty. </p><p>Irene was the first to enter the house, ambient sounds of the telly echoing from the living room. Lestrade was nowhere to be seen. Thinking back, his car wasn’t in the driveway - perhaps he was out running errands. </p><p>“Guys, listen - what happened today? That was <em>amazing</em>,” John said, closing the door behind him. He tucked off his shoes and shook his head, laughing. “I mean, I knew this town was weird, but this just takes it to another level.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s Sherlock’s work,” Irene said and she smiled at him. There was nothing teasing about it, and he was grateful for that. “Really, he discovered the secret journal and he had enough common sense to be on his toes.”</p><p>“I thought your date was a vampire at first,” he reminded her, chuckling bitterly. </p><p>“I’d welcome that problem over pixies any day,” she waved a hand dismissively. They walked upstairs together. </p><p>“Well, you still knew where to go and navigated me the whole ride there,” John pointed out. “You know the terrain better than I do and I’ve been visiting since I was a preschooler. That’s admirable.”</p><p>Sherlock tried to shrug it off as he felt heat flood his cheeks. “It was nothing.”</p><p>“Sure, play the humble card now,” Irene rolled her eyes and turned around. </p><p>“Can I see that journal? If it doesn’t bother you, I mean,” John asked, stopping at his bedroom’s door. He looked like a hopeful puppy. Irene stopped in the middle of the staircase and waited for Sherlock to answer. </p><p>Well, these past three days were painful enough as they were with all the annoying avoidance stuff. Sherlock got bored of it, anyway. And since John eagerly joined the messed up ride and not once questioned Sherlock, he deserved the right to do so. “Sure, come by the attic when we sort ourselves out?”</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>~</p><p>John opened and closed the door of his room, back pressing into the firm wood as he slid down to the floor, blissed out. This was the craziest day ever <em>yet</em>. Nothing he’d lived through can compare to the adrenaline he had experienced a couple minutes ago. </p><p>Pixies? Pixies?! Of the things he had expected, pixies were the last on his list. Actually, they weren’t there. But Sherlock and Irene weren’t prepared for this plot twist either - that was some consolation. </p><p>But God, how John enjoyed this chase. He’s got to admit, the three of them were a good team when it came to knocking pixies out and about. He had a plethora of questions regarding the journal - ha, so it wasn’t a chemistry book nor Sherlock’s diary! - and the siblings’ involvement and since <em>when</em>. How come John didn’t find the journal? He’s been visiting since he was four!</p><p>Shaking his head in amusement, he kicked off his shoes and changed into sweatpants and an old, baggy, burgundy t-shirt. His left hand was covered in minor scratches the cursed creatures bestowed on him, but it wasn’t serious and didn’t need a dressing, although he needed to disinfect it to be one-hundred-percent safe. Who knows what bacteria magical creatures have in their saliva and in their tiny claws? Speaking of which, he should check whether Irene and Sherlock sustained any injuries. Probably not since the three of them managed to walk upstairs, but still. At least he had a reason to linger and inquire. </p><p>John checked the time on his phone; five minutes passed. He went to the bathroom diagonally across from his room and found the first aid kit. He made Greg buy them immediately after the old ones expired, though they kept the bandages. He made a quick work of disinfecting the scratches, hissing at the stinging discomfort. </p><p>As he walked out, he almost collided with Irene, who was holding a towel and clean clothes. What is it with these two and their tendency to crash into him? </p><p>“Sorry,” she said, stepping aside to let him pass. “Hey, you can come up to the attic in like ten minutes. Sherlock wants to shower too and then we’re good.”</p><p>“Sounds good to me,” John said, turning around to go grab a bite of something in the kitchen. He halted before descending, going to knock on the bathroom door. “Irene? Do you have any scratches or injuries that need patching up?”</p><p>“No, we’re both fine,” he heard her say, and he let out a relieved sigh. Good, that was… good. But he’ll ask again once he sees Sherlock as well, just to be sure. </p><p>He jogged downstairs, no sign of Mrs Hudson nor Greg. Considering that today was a slow day at the Shack, his grunkle probably closed early and went out to the town to either shop or play a game of poker with his friends. Mrs Hudson has gone home, too, as a result. </p><p>One glance into the fridge told John that yep, Greg went grocery shopping. “When the fuck did he eat all the stuff I bought?” he whispered, confused. Was he having an anxious episode, overindulging? From what? As far as John knew, he wasn’t binge watching any TV show… He’ll have to ask Mrs Hudson. Oh, but the truth was that there were two more inhabitants in the house currently, maybe they liked to snack. Hm, yeah. He shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions. </p><p>With that in mind, John grabbed plain toast and pre-sliced ham. Unfortunately, the ham was expired and smelled horribly wrong upon unwrapping. Disgusting. How didn’t anybody throw it out until now? John binned it and aggressively stuffed his face with stale bread, chewing slowly as not to choke himself. That would be an embarrassing death, stuffed like a turkey on Thanksgiving dinner. </p><p>John checked the time on his phone one last time before taking another set of stairs to the attic. He knocked on the door and waited until Irene let him in. She had a turban made out of a red towel for her wet hair to drip off into, and Sherlock also changed into more comfortable clothes. They had the triangular window open to let some fresh air in. </p><p>Irene looked from Sherlock at John and winked, then proceeded to take off the makeshift turban and brushed her long hair. Sherlock was seated on the carpet, legs crossed underneath him, the journal opened in front of him. John stood in the doorway for a few seconds awkwardly before submitting himself to the carpet as well. </p><p>“So, what exactly happened today?” he asked, hugging his right leg. He shuffled closer to Sherlock so that he could see the journal better. Sherlock coughed into his fist, adjusting his position a little and then he got to explaining. How Sherlock found it, that its author is unknown and either dead or missing (not exactly a calming piece of information). There were other creatures documented besides pixies or vampires, but the journal was unfinished. It cut off approximately halfway through with a cryptic message saying that the author was discovered. </p><p>“It’s pretty fucking creepy,” Irene commented as Sherlock read it out loud. John agreed. This was way more serious than he’d anticipated, but interesting all the same. </p><p>“They may be around, somewhere,” Sherlock said, rubbing his chin. John watched his dark curls glisten in the illumination provided by the newly changed lightbulb. If John’s senses were sharp, he was pretty sure he smelled Sherlock’s shampoo - lavender scented? A wild guess, but he didn’t complain, though he had to fight the urge to lean in and sniff it. </p><p>John cracked his neck to release some of the tension it held and looked at Irene. She looked back at him, smiled knowingly (or did he imagine it?) and returned her attention to putting on neon green nail polish. “The journal is titled as a third, where is the rest?”</p><p>Sherlock smirked at the book, fingers stapled under his chin as he hummed thoughtfully. He stood up and paced in front of the window. “Good observation, John. There are <em>at least </em>two other journals, that much is true, logically. Unfortunately there is no indication in the third journal where they may be.”</p><p>John watched Sherlock speak with fervor, mesmerized by the way he talked and carried himself through his speech. “Do you want to find them?”</p><p>“It would be essential to do so,” Sherlock said, tilting his head sideways and looking at John from across the room. John felt his heart skip a beat when those sharp blue-and-green eyes rested upon him. </p><p>“We have the whole summer to find out what happened to the author and where the first two journals are,” John said, holding his gaze. Sherlock froze, blinking abruptly. Irene coughed. </p><p>“We?”</p><p>“Uh, I mean, I could help?” John said, shrugging. He tried not to let the pang of rejection show on his face. Damn, he shouldn’t have suggested that. He got carried away. “If you don’t want me tagging along, that’s fine, I get that. We don’t know each other that well, in the end and…”</p><p>“No no, it is fine!” Sherlock insisted, flailing his hands around. Irene watched her brother with a raised eyebrow, blowing on her nails. “That… that thing you did today, that was, uhm… good. Good, yeah. Thank you for helping out.”</p><p>John felt his mouth spread into a smile, and he winked at Sherlock (did he blush?) to reassure him that it was no problem. Sherlock looked down, biting his lip. He was adorable - <em>damnit, Watson</em>.</p><p>“Oh, please,” Irene groaned and Sherlock and John turned to her in alarm. She screwed the lid of the polish back on and stretched her fingers to inspect her nails properly. It was satisfactory, judging by her face. “I should be the one to thank you both for coming to save me. Especially you, Sherlock. I know you were looking out for me and I’m sorry for dismissing you.”</p><p>“Ah, well. You saved us with the spray-mageddon back there,” Sherlock said, pointing at the window with his thumb. </p><p>“Yeah, you’re welcome, but you helped too. And John has good aim.”</p><p>“Thanks, I tried,” he grinned at her. Irene’s eyes jumped from John to Sherlock, but she kept quiet if she observed anything new to her knowledge. </p><p>“I guess I’ll have to have my fingers crossed to have a mermaid girlfriend,” she sighed dramatically and then blew on her nail polish to dry faster again, even shaking her hands to achieve the status of being able to touch stuff without the polish distorting. “I guess I should slow down on the dating front. It’s not like I had much luck in Toronto either. You know what? That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I think I’m way better at matchmaking others than myself. Yes, I’ll do that!”</p><p>“God almighty,” Sherlock grimaced, then rolled his eyes as his eyes flinched from John to Irene reprimandingly. John didn’t understand and didn’t try to; it felt like another intrusion on their lives. Although, he had a feeling it concerned him. <em>Huh</em>. “I have a feeling the world will fall before you if you do that.”</p><p>“Always look on the bright side of life,” John said, poking Irene with his foot as she threw a pillow at her brother.</p><p>“Is that a Monty Python reference?” Irene asked, attempting to whistle the melody and failing miserably.</p><p>“No, but maybe some other time.”</p><p>“Good enough for me. So, does this mean we are going to solve the mystery of this journal?” Irene cocked her head at the book lying on the floor like some ritual accessory. “I’d say we make a bloody great team.”</p><p>“Agreed. This may turn out to be the best summer of my life. I spent my childhood here without much to do and each year has been getting depressingly lonely. No offense to Greg, we do have fun together, but it’s different with your grunkle and with your peers. I certainly want to help, if you’ll put up with me.”</p><p>“Great! What do you think, Sherlock? Just the three of us against the rest of the world?”</p><p>Sherlock eyed Irene and John, his lips curling into an amused grin. Truly, this summer didn’t look so bleak in the end. No, it was promising. Very. And John’s heart started longing for something more, even. To hell with everything else.</p><p>His and Sherlock’s eyes met again, and John felt his insides melt. It felt so familiar and yet so distant. Strange, since they first met yesterday, but his gut feeling felt otherwise. Human psychology, huh.</p><p>They both nodded and Irene outstretched her hand, telling John and Sherlock to do the same. The two put theirs atop hers as Sherlock, looking from John to Irene, said, “Just the three of us against the rest of the world!”</p><p>Later that night when John bid the two siblings good-night and padded down to his humble room, he took out a small journal of his own. It was almost filled till the end as he used it quite frequently to jot down his thoughts, positive or negative. This entry was among the few positive ones, however. </p><p>
  <em>“So, that was the day. I remember how Greg said to me that this town has local legends that don’t mean a single thing worth sparing a thought to, but the pixie cut adventure proved him wrong. We decided to keep it a secret for now, though. It’s not like you can call him to look at winged pixies and say ‘Yo, we got fairy infestation!’ and think he would believe you. But I can say that I’m honoured to be able to join Sherlock and Irene, which I think I can call my friends. In the end, you don’t fight hundreds of pixies every day with just about anyone. And now? Now, it’s the three of us against the rest of the world. And… I may be getting a crush. God dammit.”</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>Downstairs, separated by ceilings and creaky floors, cheap LED lights illuminated the kitchen. Greg took a long puff from his cigarette and switched the TV off. His bare feet tapping against the clean floor (a courtesy of Mrs Hudson) and he opened the fridge only to close it immediately. He wasn’t hungry, nor was he tired. He contemplated taking the stairs and crashing in the master bedroom, but he decided it would be a waste of time. Especially when he could be getting closer to his goal.</p><p>He’s gotten a signal trace of a new cipher approximately a week ago. If his calculations and rough estimations were correct, he should be getting another in three days. Needs must, even if he was shit at it. He hoped he would get a positive code tonight. His work was harder due to the lack of two-thirds of the original blueprints, but that hadn’t put him off in the last fifteen years, and it wouldn’t <em>ever</em>, even if it meant he got little to no sleep.</p><p>He crept up to the vending machine inside the gift shop by the door near the museum part of the Shack and typed in a four-digit code. He waited for the machine to soundlessly slide to the left so he could slither into the space behind it, a set of stairs leading deeper under the house. </p><p>Greg had work to do, and the last remaining journals wouldn’t find themselves without some effort put into it. The same went for the construction in progress. </p><p>The vending machine slid back into its place once he reached the bottom of the stairs and the elevator at its end. Crickets were creaking in the grass under the moonlit sky outside. </p><p>Everything was peaceful, unlike his mind. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, there it is, folks. The 'pilot' episode is officially finished and the journey is only now beginning! There are *wink* more supernatural *wink wink* forces coming, too! Just in five days ;) Which also means more pining, blind-to-the-others-otherwise-quite-obvious-feelings johnlock! Whee!!</p><p>Also, hm... I wonder what Greg is up to, and what other mysteries are there for them to unravel?</p><p>We'll see! </p><p>*absolutely not suspicious at all*</p><p>Anyway, thank you all for reading, I absolutely adore you all!<br/>As always, comments are encouraged and 100% appreciated :)<br/>Next update is on the 25th, and we will beging episode 2! I originally wanted to update sooner on my bday this Tuesday, but I won't really have the time to do that, so we'll stick to the planned schedule :)<br/>See you on Thursday~</p><p>Updated: 20.9. 2020<br/>Word count: 5859</p><p>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's tumblr (she does our fanart and many more!): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you, and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Gloria Scott I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is SuperLock</p><p>episode 2, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ola! Welcome to a brand new episode of Reichenbach Falls! We're finally getting into the more ~supernatural~ shenanigans as I promised, hope you'll like it! :) </p><p>Also, if you're not very familiar with the Supernatural fandom, fear not! I have also started rewatching it more thoroughly like a month ago, so apologies to any hardcore Spn fans, I did my best with their characterisation here, albeit the first chapter is short x) I'll elborate on their role in the fic once the episode is all posted.</p><p>And most importantly, thank you all that take your time to read this, comment, bookmark, or give kudos! Love you all! *mwah* your suppport means a lot :')<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, the two crazy women I subject to the deep lore of this fic &lt;3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun was barely above the horizon, the early sky soft pink that faded into orange in colour. Sherlock fumbled downstairs to the kitchen, John and Mrs Hudson already up. Mrs Hudson was, at least. John sat on a chair, back pressed against the wall, his chin propped up on his left fist, eyes closed. There was a sleek rectangular window hovering above his head that cast a halo on his fair hair. Sherlock smiled to himself and pulled up a chair, yawning. </p><p>John was apparently still asleep, so Sherlock kept quiet until Mrs Hudson turned around from the stovetop and wished him good morning. John jolted up at the sudden noise, rubbing his eyes and muttering a dreamy greeting. </p><p>“Sleep well?” Sherlock asked, running a hand through his hair. John grunted and tried not to slouch too much. He didn’t bother changing from his pyjamas either. </p><p>Sherlock glanced at the clock above the countertop. Six o’clock. Irene would stay in bed for the next three hours minimum. Blessed silence. </p><p>So far the only interruption to this quiet morning have been Mrs Hudson’s whisk and pan, which Sherlock didn’t mind. A pleasant smell of pancakes and chocolate filled his nostrils when the woman put a plate loaded with the goodies in front of both her boys. </p><p>“Eat up, will you?” she said, taking maple syrup out of a cupboard and handing it to John. “Especially you, Sherlock. I don’t like how thin you are.”</p><p>He smiled and helped himself to a handful of her pancakes. They tasted delicious, mainly when topped off with butter and a chocolate spread. John absentmindedly drowned his plate in maple syrup and swallowed his pancakes in giant chunks, then plated three more. He practically licked it clean, and Mrs Hudson was satisfied, though she impaled Sherlock with a look saying,<em> ‘If you don’t finish those pancakes, I’ll stuff them down your throat, dear.’</em> and he’d rather not risk that. And so, he helped himself to more breakfast.</p><p>“Ah, good morning, Greg,” Mrs Hudson said, motioning her spatula at the table for Lestrade to see. “Help yourself.”</p><p>“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Lestrade said, appearing from behind Sherlock as he slammed today’s fresh print of newspaper, circling the table to sit next to his nephew, “because I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” - he took a bite out of a rolled up pancake - “but you do more than enough as it is. I don’t need you cooking breakfast for us.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson fixed him with a scrutinous look, blinking three times. “Greg, don’t kid yourself, you’d die of starvation before you’d be able to manage to cook anything. We established that not too long ago.”</p><p>She turned on her heels once more to flip another pancake, second to last one. John snickered next to Lestrade for which he got elbowed in the ribs. </p><p>“Why do you side with Hudders? I’m your uncle!” he scowled at him good-naturedly. He got up and fished another bottle of maple syrup from below the sink and set it in front of John. Sherlock snatched the newspaper and skimmed through the articles, peeking over the top of the page at the two of them inconspicuously. </p><p>“Mrs. Hudson is mostly right, Greg, you wouldn’t survive long on takeaway either because you’re picky,” John said, dodging his elbow again. “But you do have a point. Mrs Hudson does more than necessary sometimes. We <em>can </em>cook, you know, we’re adults.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson waved him off, washing her hands under a stream of water, letting the pan to soak. “You’re right, John, you are adults. Adults with poor self-control and even poorer habits,” her eyes pierced Greg through and through.</p><p>“If this is about my smoking again….”</p><p>“If only, no. But it’s not my place to criticise you for that so early in the morning. I’ll go and change oil in the car now, enjoy your breakfast, boys!”</p><p>And with a gleeful smirk, she departed, hanging her apron on a nail next to the threshold. Her head made an appearance almost immediately. She cast Lestrade a warm smile. “Oh, but since you are a proper grown-up, you can wash the dishes, dear.”</p><p>Lestrade sighed and poured maple syrup onto his pancake. Sherlock returned to the newspaper with a smirk of his own. There was nothing remotely interesting in the issue, apart from the typos he found and corrected. Who even lets people like these near a keyboard? Monkeys could write better articles than what his eyes were subjected to read. But then again, it could be worse. Maybe. </p><p>Cheering and gurgling sounds caught his attention. He lowered the papers and raised his eyebrows at the sight in front of him. John and Lestrade were pouring the entire contents of the maple syrup bottles into their mouths. Truth be told, he was taken aback - quite a lot. </p><p><em>So much for grown-ups,</em> he thought. </p><p>He watched them race who would sooner drink the most maple syrup - John won, to his surprise. But that was thanks to the fact that Lestrade choked on his bit and gave up, running to the sink to spit the sticky syrup out. Sherlock believed these two could go on for hours when it came to such leisurely activities, weren’t it for the restrictions their mortal bodies provided that prevented it. </p><p>“I won!” John cheered, turning to Sherlock and grinning with a sticky smile. He ran over his teeth with his tongue and Sherlock had to pry his eyes from John to avoid staring. Sherlock cleared his throat, giving the blond a small nod.</p><p>“Looser’s luck,” Lestrade said, sipping water from a glass, flossing. </p><p>“You always say that, just admit I’m better than you,” John laughed, at last fully woken up. </p><p>“I let you win, kid.”</p><p>“Sure, keep telling yourself that, old man.”</p><p>“Tosser.”</p><p>“Grunkle.”</p><p>“Git!”</p><p>They both burst out laughing at that, Sherlock quirking an eyebrow, returning his attention to the newspaper fully. Did he and Irene look like this to others when they bantered? Possibly. Ah, that may be how you recognise a family. </p><p>Sherlock tried to keep himself busy with correcting grammatical mistakes, but John’s laugh got to him even through the blitheringly idiotic writing. Great, now he can’t focus. Why is that laugh so attention-grabbing? Not that it wasn’t nice, but it always caught him off guard. ‘<em>Always</em>’ - the five days that they have been here. </p><p>It’s been four days since their adventure in the forest when he and John took Lestrade’s golf cart and chased Irene’s captors. Sherlock’s first guess was a vampire, but his step-sister’s date turned out to be three pixies in a goth costume and a trenchcoat. Suffice to say, Irene and ‘Normandy’ broke up and since then Sherlock’s step-sister came to the conclusion that dating wasn’t for her at the present moment, so she is opting to matchmake those around her until true love made itself known to her. Which, in his opinion, was a horrible career decision, but whatever floated her boat, Sherlock wouldn’t criticise too much. The absolute worst was, however, that he anticipated Irene to revisit the topic of him and John. </p><p>Actually, since the pixie incident, Sherlock felt more relaxed around John. Spending time in his proximity was… good. Not as dreadful as he had made it out in his head to be. Although, one problem remained - his attraction to John. Whatever he told himself, it did <em>not </em>dissipate, and Sherlock was growing more and more frustrated. And that damned Canadian sitting in front of him didn’t make it any easier. He was actually <em>interested </em>in Sherlock and even his odd hobbies and obsessions with experiments, chemistry, and recently also theories about the mystery journal. John <em>listened</em> and he didn’t tell Sherlock to shut up <em>once</em>. Why? That was yet another mystery on Sherlock’s checklist to solve.</p><p>But all in all - and don’t tell this to Irene - he realised he didn’t mind the idea of liking John as much as he vehemently tried to deny it out loud otherwise. And that was troubling. Where were his defenses and inhibitions?</p><p>“Irene’s still asleep?” Sherlock’s head snapped up to see Lestrade standing next to him, realising the question was aimed at him. He was wearing his usual suit trousers and white shirt, but without the jacket. Everything was ironed out. A courtesy of Mrs Hudson, surely. </p><p>“I suppose,” he said, setting the newspaper down. “For the next…” - he checked the clock - “three hours approximately. She spent the night putting nail polish on the lamp on her bedside table.”</p><p>“Did she now?” Sherlock’s conscience felt bad for a second before the man declared, “Huh. It was ugly, anyway. I wanted to take you kids out to the lake district today, but how about we make it guys-only? No offense to her, but she can keep company to Mrs Hudson. We’ll make it even some other time.”</p><p>“What do you want to do at the lake?” John asked, stretching in his chair. The hem of his t-shirt lifted and bared the skin on his stomach, and Sherlock’s own did a somersault. </p><p>“We can go fishing,” his uncle proposed, shrugging. “Or just hang out, have a beer or something. You’re both legal… Uh, well. Yeah. You are. What do you think?”</p><p>“Do I have to tag along?” Sherlock asked coolly. </p><p>“I hoped you’d want to,” said Lestrade, slightly dumbfounded. He crossed his arms, taking a step back to lean against the fridge. “For us with John, it is like a family bonding time, sort of. And since your mum’s a good friend of mine, well, that’s as good as family to me. John…. I mean Millie - sorry - told me that you like to spend time in nature. Won’t hurt to give it a try.”</p><p>“Yeah, I think it could be fun,” John agreed, looking at Sherlock. He looked genuinely happy at the thought of Sherlock coming along. “I don’t want to leave Irene behind, but maybe you two could use some time apart from each other. She did try to stab you with a fork for the past three days whenever you got on her nerves. And that was…. At least five times a day.”</p><p>Indeed, Irene did resort to a passive-aggressive behaviour. But Sherlock wasn’t innocent in this. It was partially due to an accident prior to that when he recited an unknown incantation and it made the nearest pair of scissors spring to life. Irene’s hair was almost cut in half, but he managed to revert the curse before it did any damage. His step-sister didn’t forget easily, however. </p><p>“I think you’re right,” Sherlock said at last, nodding. “Okay, I’ll come with you.”</p><p>“Cool, we’ll go in an hour,” Lestrade said and left the kitchen. His footsteps faded at the sound of the front door closing. He’ll smoke two cigarettes and then go check the register in the gift shop. Predictable. </p><p>“The lake is pretty nice,” John said, closing his bottle of maple syrup. He cast Sherlock an amiable, fleeting glance. “I think it’s better if we go early like Greg said. Not many tourists on the beach or using boats.”</p><p>“Is the lake big?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly and he read the last few pages of the local newspaper. Even the crossword was worse than a regular newspaper’s.</p><p>“Quite. Part of it used to be a quarry and locals joined the two areas when it filled up. It is mostly surrounded by the forest, so it has a nice view. There is even a passage that leads to a waterfall. Not the Reichenbach, but still impressive and -”</p><p>“Oh, look at this!” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, scooting on the chair next to John. He pointed at a leaflet on the last page that advertised a supernatural photo contest. The prize was staked to five hundred dollars. “Considering we have the luck of seeing weird unnatural occurrences every day, we could easily win this and split the fee.”</p><p>“Interesting plan,” John said, re-reading the leaflet. “Commissions are open until the end of summer.” He put his arm on the backseat of Sherlock’s chair and Sherlock ignored the tingling in his belly. There were lame illustrations of monsters on the piece of paper to support the idea of what the photos could contain, but they didn’t top what the three of them endured. </p><p>“You don’t have a photo of the pixies, do you?”</p><p>“No, just memories. And I think Irene keeps a ripped off wing as a bookmark.”</p><p>“Yeah, I saw her do that. The idea behind the <em>why </em>escapes me, though.”</p><p>John shrugged and got up to clean the table. Sherlock helped him, memorising what belonged where in the meantime as they danced around each other. John left the pancakes on the table, covered with a large see-through plastic bowl for Irene to see. It was strangely domestic and synchronized. </p><p>“Question,” Sherlock said as the two of them ascended the stairs. John looked over his shoulder and kept walking. “How ‘fun’ is this family bonding time of yours, usually?”</p><p>John stopped atop the stairs, thoughtful. “Well, last summer we went to a shooting range and that was beyond entertaining. But the year before that we prank called the entire neighbourhood until the cops showed up. It was a pretty cold night to be spent at a county jail if you ask me.”</p><p>“So by your logic this year we could end up arrested?” </p><p>“I want to say no, but you never know in this town.”</p><p>“That, Mr Watson,” Sherlock purred, stepping past him with a smirk, “is very true.”</p><p>They set out ten minutes later than planned due to Lestrade’s unruly smoking habit. John bid Mrs Hudson a goodbye as she saw them off. She would take care of the gift shop for the day and have Irene assist her. (“No worries, I’ll get Irene to help out. God knows she could be more useful around here and help me scam more people.”)</p><p>The drive was filled with unhappy engine sounds and horrible radio signal, later switched to Lestrade’s trusty collection of eighties’ music when even he couldn’t bear the crap transmission. </p><p>John and Sherlock sat in the back, though reluctantly. The passenger’s seat was occupied by Lestrade’s fishing gear, some of it rusty. Sherlock thought they’d be lucky if they didn’t end up getting tetanus on this trip. He decided that he’ll sit back and watch. He won’t get his hands dirty. Good thing he packed the journal. </p><p>He rolled his eyes at John’s atrocious singing abilities (it wasn’t <em>that </em>bad, although it could be better) but kept listening. Admittedly, Lestrade had good taste in music. </p><p>They rode through wide roads, swivelling among tall trees shading them from the rising sun and heat accompanying the hot giant. Ten minutes on the road, Sherlock pulled out the journal and put it on his thighs, studying creatures listed as the pages progressed. He read about pixies again, smiling at his own scribble of a writing where he added their weaknesses: shovels and any kind of sprays, though that could be an interesting experiment on its own. He grimaced when he saw the page on vampires, hoping they won’t get to meet those. The author inspected gnomes and jackalopes as well; they even tracked their whereabouts. That would be exciting, having a jackalope as a pet…</p><p>He stopped when he eventually turned to a page with what seemed like an incomplete drawing of what looked like one of three corners of a triangle. Frowning, he propped his forehead on his knuckles, searching for anything helpful. There were numbers, lines and lines of incoherent equations and the like. There was no key to decipher it, but maybe it was in one of the other two missing journals. </p><p>The car hitched, snapping Sherlock’s mind to attention. Lestrade put both hands on the steering wheel, straightening the machine, nodding to the beat of ‘<em>Don’t Stop Me Now</em>’ by Queen. Sherlock looked over at John, who was facing the window, his irises jumping from tree to tree, lost in thought. Peculiar how he didn’t give a damn whether his ‘grunkle’, as he called him occasionally, crashed the car or not with him inside. Maybe he trained himself out of fearing this possibility over the years. </p><p>When the forest started clearing out, Sherlock packed the journal into his backpack and fastened it. He felt a tug at his sleeve; John pried for his attention and prompted him to lean closer to his side to see the view. Sherlock did so, closing in on John’s personal space perhaps a little bit more than necessary, relishing it all the same. </p><p>They drove into a parking lot, most spaces already taken. Sherlock noticed a large banner with the title ‘Fishing Season Open’. He suddenly regretted agreeing to come, however infatuated he may be. This will be dull. </p><p>“Jesus, people normally skip this day,” Lestrade grumbled, but he lightened up once he spotted an empty parking slot. He got out, careful not to bump to the car next to them and circled round to fetch his fishing gear. </p><p>Sherlock and John silently followed him out. Sherlock swung the backpack over his shoulder and walked a few paces behind Lestrade and John. </p><p>“Why exactly do you want to bond here this year?” he heard John ask. </p><p>“I just thought we could do something more relaxing,” Lestrade answered, putting a silly cap on his head that had fish hooks strapped behind a band. “If you want to, I can try negotiating the range with Sally as well, could come in handy.”
</p><p>“Really? That’d be awesome, Greg!”</p><p>“Ah, speaking of the devil - Donovan, hey!” he waved at a dark skinned woman drinking coffee, sitting on a bench. She turned to them and waved back in acknowledgement. </p><p>Sherlock, to his great dislike, found himself being hurdled towards Donovan. He really did not need social interaction with new people this early in the day. The woman seemed to know John and greeted him, and then Sherlock saw his reflection in her shades as she undoubtedly looked him over. </p><p>“Friend of yours?” she said, peering at Lestrade over the rim of her black glasses. </p><p>“Yes, this is Sherlock,” he introduced the boy, “son of my good friend, Minnie Holmes. He and his sister Irene will spend the summer here. John and I brought him up here to show him how we fish around the Falls.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure, as if you’re going to catch anything,” she snorted into her cup, and Sherlock did too. Lestrade opened and closed his mouth, defenseless. </p><p>“We’ll see,” he said eventually. “I’ll bet you ten bucks we’ll catch a fish weighing more than ten pounds today. What do you think, guys?”</p><p>Sherlock and John exchanged glances, not meeting Lestrade’s. “We’ll try,” John said unconvincingly. Lestrade flicked him in the ear.</p><p>“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Donovan said, smirking. She took a long sip from her coffee. Sherlock was getting restless. “But please, refrain from betting with other fishermen today. I’m in no mood to break up meaningless brawls when you trick them.”</p><p>“I never cause brawls,” Lestrade said, shoving hands in his pockets. They all knew that was a lie. He was never in the centre of it, but certainly behind the scenes of the fights. “Fine, whatever. I never intended to, you know. It’s family time with John and Sherlock today, anyway.”</p><p>Donovan nodded silently, her head tuning to the side to observe two men stepping out of a beautiful car Sherlock recognised to be an Impala. His mom liked the car rather a lot, and she even had one back in England when she was young. </p><p>The men were both wearing shades, the younger one taller than Sherlock, and the other was of similar height to John. The shorter man ran a hand through his hair, looking around. Nothing interesting about them, except for the car. Sherlock turned his attention back to John and Lestrade, when suddenly a man stormed back on the beach from the pier, clearly distressed. </p><p>“I’VE SEEN HER! I’VE SEEN HER AGAIN!” the guy yelled, running from person to person, invading their personal space to scream in their faces. He ran about the beach, making a mess in general of the place, but the people didn’t seem too bothered. He giggled inappropriately when he emerged next to John and Sherlock, rubbing his hands together. “THE LEGEND WAS TRUE! THE CURSED GLORIA SCOTT HAUNTS THE LAKE AT NIGHT! Y’ALL BETTER SKEDADDLE AWAY BEFORE SHE DRAGS YOU INTO YOUR WET GRAVE, HEEHEE!” </p><p>Donovan sighed exasperatedly and got up. “Alistair, your son’s at it again.”</p><p>Hearing the commotion outside, a grandpa in his sixties came out of the small shack renting motor boats with a water spray bottle. He walked up to the man between Sherlock and John who was down doing a little happy dance of sorts, slapping his thighs and arms. </p><p>“Henry!” the man bellowed, spraying his son in the face, which caused him to retreat. “What did I tell you? You’re scaring away our customers! Stop it at once!” He sprayed him repeatedly until Henry managed to gather enough breath to answer. </p><p>“Dad, this time I’ve got proof!” he said desperately, putting up his hands to stop the incoming water particles. </p><p>Henry turned on the balls of his feet, prompting his father to come. He acquired a curious crowd around him, John and Sherlock, as well as Donovan and Lestrade, among them. The young man led them to the end of the pier, his expression excited and appalled in one. He stopped abruptly two meters away from its edge, pointing at the lake surface. </p><p>Everyone peeked over him. Donovan and Alistair stepped forward, taking a closer look at the situation. John and Sherlock exchanged glances and nodded. John took out his phone and got his camera ready. </p><p>They watched Donovan crouch and reach for something under the pier. Sherlock heard how the rest of the crowd held their breaths in silent anticipation. </p><p>The policewoman stood up, unimpressed. She raised her hand for everyone to see… a wet piece of red jacket, slimy with seaweed. She threw it at the wood with barely contained disgust, running her hand over the fabric of her jeans. </p><p>“I guess there’s your haunted woman, Henry,” she said, hands on hips. Alistair who stood next to her fumed, his eyes flashing with anger. </p><p>“Don’t you see?” Henry tilted his head, falling to his knees. He crawled closer to the jacket but refrained from touching it. “It has Gloria’s imprints all over it! She had smooth, pale skin,” he turned with such suddenness Sherlock had no time to react when Henry pointed at him, - “like this handsome man right here!”</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“She shrieked illegible blabbery-doos at me, wearing this jacket!” Henry went on. “Schmackles! Almost got me this time, with her cold fingers! Tweedle-hoo, avoided at last. She skedaddled over to the back of the lake, just by that little island. You have to believe me, father!”</p><p>Sherlock’s gaze fell on said island while Henry got publicly berated by his old father. It was too far for him to notice any significant clues that the aforementioned ghostly Gloria Scott was said to have left on the jacket. The crowd dissipated, embarrassed as they were by the shouting they were witnessing. Eventually, Henry got overwhelmed and he ran off, crying. His father sighed, shook his head, and walked back to his renting shop, head hung low between his shoulders. </p><p>“Every time I think Henry got better, he proves me wrong,” Donovan said, stepping over the slimy red jacket. </p><p>“What happened to him?” Sherlock asked, snapping back to reality. </p><p>“It’s a long story,” she said, her expression softening momentarily. She rubbed her temples. “He was okay one day and he changed completely the next. He was out camping with friends, but he got lost. Just a couple hours. We sent out a ranger with a dog and they found Henry. He looked like he ran a marathon; he was out of breath, constantly checking the forest over his shoulder. Problem was, he went absolutely apeshit when he saw the dog, refused to be in its proximity or even see it in his peripheral vision.</p><p>“He didn’t remember much to begin with, how he came to get lost and all that. He couldn’t explain why he feared the dog, either. He clammed up whenever we brought it up. He was skittish for months, didn’t leave his parents’ house at all. People speculated what could’ve happened to make him paranoid to such a degree and we thought maybe his friends took a prank too far. None of them knew what happened, though. They went to sleep together and woke up in the morning to find Henry gone. </p><p>“When Henry started going out, he was…. different. As you may have seen him now. He became eccentric and he started using those weird ‘skedaddle’ words and whatnot. His dad didn’t take it well. Still doesn’t. He had planned to make Henry take on the family business so he could retire early, but that’s out of the window for as long as this continues. And seeing how today went down, I think it is obvious things aren’t heading in the right direction.”</p><p>“So does he always rush in yelling about ghosts?” John asked, crossing his arms. Sherlock caught how Lestrade frowned at his feet, head tucked down. </p><p>“Ghosts, possessed squirrels, dinosaurs, you name it,” Donovan said, her lips curving into a sad smile. She scanned the pier and the crowded beach, checking for any disruptions among visitors. </p><p>“Christ, he’s really deep in it.”</p><p>“You tell me, John. Not a day passes when I don’t hope for Henry to come to his senses.”</p><p>“But what could’ve scared him?” Sherlock thought out loud. The three turned to him. “What? He was probably attacked. Could be a mountain lion, or a wolf, but in that case he may have not survived. You said he was constantly checking the forest when he was found. That sounds like he was being hunted or followed.”</p><p>“What, you suggest someone was after him?” she said, scrunching up her nose. “Listen, I looked into it myself. I care for him, even though most of this town gave up the moment he locked himself up in solitude. But it’s been three years since the incident, it’s a cold case. Better leave that behind.”</p><p>Lestrade patted her on the shoulder and she gave him a crooked smile. “You know he appreciates what you did for him, don’t you?” he said, voice tender and careful. </p><p>“Of course,” Donovan said, and Sherlock saw her fractional vulnerability she displayed for Lestrade to hide behind a steeled mask. </p><p>“Right, I’m glad to hear that.” Lestrade peered over his shoulder at his nephew and Sherlock. “We should get on the water if we want to catch anything.”</p><p>John tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve so that the two men he saw earlier with the Impala could pass to the end of the pier. Both were muttering under their breaths, heads bobbing up and down inconspicuously. </p><p>Lestrade walked back to where a small boat was stationed. He tossed his fisherman hat down inside and climbed after it. Sherlock eyed the level of its shabbiness, his facial expression settling on resigned as he blinked away his urge to just throw himself in the water and drown. Why did he agree to this again? Oh right, because of that annoyingly handsome blond guy standing a few feet away from him.</p><p>John hopped down, his grunkle steadying them and the boat as it rocked from side to side. Sherlock stood there, one hand on the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. </p><p>“Your turn, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, holding out his arm with his palm upwards. Sherlock scrunched up his nose, sucked in a breath and glanced at John who was looking at him expectantly, seated in the shaky boat. </p><p>“Hold on,” Donovan said, as if realising something. Sherlock’s shoulders slouched in relief. “Do you have your fishing permit?”</p><p>“My… what? Oh, oh!” Lestrade said suddenly, an epiphany dawning on him. He patted himself over; jeans, shirt, jacket. John facepalmed behind him. “I should have it… here!”</p><p>He took out a piece of laminated paper and gave it to Donovan, who read it and immediately looked at Lestrade as though to say, <em>‘Not this shit again,’</em> and turned the paper around for him to read it himself. </p><p>“You gave me a coupon to the local boxing club,” she said, bemused. Sherlock took the boxing coupon from her to inspect it. “Really, if you don’t have the permit, just say so and stop wasting my time. I have sudoku to finish.”</p><p>“What? I could’ve sworn I had it,” Lestrade said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen…”
</p><p>“You cannot fish without a permit,” the policewoman said firmly. </p><p>“Donovan…”</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>“But it’s our family bonding time, Sally!”</p><p>“I get it, Greg. But rules are rules. Either show me a <em>legally acquired</em> permit or build a sandcastle on the beach.” She fixed Lestrade with one last pointed look and then she nodded and winked at the two boys. “John. Sherlock. Kids under eighteen have ice cream for free.”</p><p>“We’re adults, but thanks,” John said, rolling his eyes, then looking conspiratorially at Sherlock, who felt his insides twist for some reason. His eyebrows shot up along with the corners of his lips to show he was in on the joke but… Nope, he couldn’t pretend he was seventeen (his tall, lanky figure and voice deeper than that of most boys his age contributed greatly to that, and people thought he was older than nineteen, even). </p><p>“Whatever floats your boat,” Donovan smirked, waved, and set out to walk back to the rent shop. </p><p>Lestrade stood with hands on his hips, biting his lip thoughtfully. “Shit, guys, I’ve no clue where that permit is. But we can still float out and…”</p><p>“Greg, can I remind you that the last time we did something mildly annoying to Donovan we ended up in county jail overnight?” said John, leaning back in the boat. It dipped backwards dangerously but he paid it zero attention. He held up his finger when Greg opened his mouth to protest, “And that was JUST a prank, calling the neighbours and advertising the nonexistent free Hogwarts train tickets. And, Sally is really after anyone’s neck as long as it’s her shift. She’s stuck here for the whole day. If she catches us - and you know she WILL keep an eye out - we will get fined AND possibly, probably, spend the night in county jail. <em>Again</em>. I’m sure that’s not how you imagine family bonding time with your nephew and his friend.”</p><p>Sherlock’s head snapped up at the word ‘friend’ - was he, really? They knew each other for a few days, and he even contemplated it in his Mind Palace, but wouldn’t <em>hot-acquaintance-that-helped-me-massacre-pixies-so-that-I-could-save-my-step-sister-so-we-sort-of-bonded-and-broke-the-ice-over-that </em>fit a little more? Perhaps it’s too long for a label of… whatever this is. He filed it in his Palace for later inspection.</p><p>Lestrade groaned and clumsily scrambled out on the pier. “Fine, I’ll go check the car, just to be sure. If it’s not there, I may have left it at the Shack.”</p><p>“If you are fast enough you’ll make it till lunch and we will still have a couple hours left for fishing,” John said, getting out of the boat as well with Sherlock’s help. </p><p>“You’ll stay here, then?”</p><p>“I mean, if Sherlock doesn’t mind,” John shrugged, turning to the curly haired boy. </p><p>“I don’t particularly fancy another trip in the car with Lestrade that soon, to be honest,” Sherlock said, cheekily, getting an eye roll out of the man himself and a giggle out of John. </p><p>“Fine,” huffed Lestrade, digging hands in pockets. “Just make sure the tourists don’t rob you. Or the ghost-lady Henry talked about. I’ll be back in a bit. Watch the boat or something in the meantime.”</p><p>He left for the car and the boys observed the vast lake from the pier for a while. Sherlock noticed the two men crouching at the end of the wooden walk, one of them poking the red jacket with a knife. Something seemed off about them - why would they care for a piece of wet rag? There was something about the shorter man and the way he suspiciously eyed everything around that made Sherlock curious. He definitely didn’t look like a daft local, and neither did his tall companion. </p><p>With a sudden twist of motion they stood up, voices low. Sherlock tiptoed closer to John who was retying the boat’s knot to ensure it stayed in place. </p><p>“It must be the ghost that the crazy fortune teller warned us about,” said the taller one, keeping his posture casual. “She has drowned two men from the neighbouring town in the past month.”</p><p>“Great, just when we go on vacation, we have to deal with this bullshit,” said the other one, putting on his stylish shades. “Get the guns and salt, Sammy, I’ll rent a boat. We’re going on that island and get it done as soon as possible.”</p><p>They passed John and Sherlock, unaware that one of them overheard them clearly. </p><p>“John, this is perfect!” Sherlock tugged at his t-shirt, excitement washing over his face. </p><p>“Hm? What do you mean? We have to wait for Greg to return.”</p><p>“No, didn’t you hear? These two men apparently think that what Henry said was true! They’re going after the ghost and -”</p><p>“Whoa, whoa, whoa - who?”</p><p>“Them,” Sherlock pointed at the duo, now parting ways at the beach. “We could help them!”</p><p>John’s eyebrows knit together as he crossed his arms. His gaze flicked from Sherlock to the man walking to the rent shop and back. “Are you sure you heard them correctly? I mean, what chance is there of more people dealing with the supernatural like we do?”</p><p>“One of them said a fortune teller from another town warned them about the ghost,” Sherlock explained, eyes twinkling. Oh, this will be exciting! “Apparently the ghost killed two men from a neighbouring town in the past month or so.”</p><p>“That’s a relief,” John said sarcastically. </p><p>“And we could even get a picture for that magazine competition!”</p><p>John seemed to contemplate the option of getting cash in exchange for possibly getting nearly murdered by an angry ghost. “Well, we can ask them if they need help, of course.”</p><p>Sherlock practically ran up to the man in record time, just as he was getting the motorboat ready. He dragged John by the wrist, not bothering with slowing down. The stranger’s eyes cut to Sherlock’s person, weary. </p><p>“Can I help you?” he asked conversationally, obviously not wanting to engage in small talk. </p><p>“I heard you talking about Gloria Scott’s ghost,” Sherlock breathed, John huffing as he tried to catch a breath. The other man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he continued acting like he never even heard of the word ‘ghost’ itself. Sherlock gestured to himself and John, “I think we may be of help.” </p><p>He put his backpack down just as the taller man - Sammy, he recalled - chimed in. He was carrying a large, heavy sack, undoubtedly full of their guns. Sherlock faintly registered John straighten up and shift closer to Sherlock.</p><p>“Everything alright, Dean?” Sammy asked, looking the boys up and down. His demeanor was nicer than Dean’s. </p><p>“Yeah, it’s nothing. Got our fishing gear?” Dean said nonchalantly, getting the sack from his friend. Sherlock hesitated for a while. What if he somehow interpreted it incorrectly? Maybe ‘ghost’ was an American slang term for a fish? Was there a murderous fish instead of an angry dead woman killing men? He would still want a picture of that. No! Stupid! They’re just pretending they don’t know what he’s talking about.</p><p>“Wait! I heard you on the pier quite clearly,” Sherlock said, standing up indignantly. “We think Henry was telling the truth and that the ghost actually exists. We know, actually. We’ve dealt with the supernatural forces before.”</p><p>“Oh, I didn’t know Ghostbusters got yet another reboot this decade,” Dean said ironically, putting his shades down. “Listen, whatever you heard - forget it. Alright? We don’t need you messing around with something you don’t understand.”</p><p>Sammy, who seemed quite intrigued by Sherlock’s short speech, nudged Dean in the ribs, but he was on his side. “Sorry guys, but even if what you said is true, that doesn’t mean you should get involved with it. Ghosts are tricky to handle.”</p><p>“Great, now you completely gave us away, Sam.”</p><p>While the two bickered, Sherlock impatiently took out the mystery journal and propped it open, listing through pages furiously. John stepped even closer, peering over his shoulder and Sherlock was hyper aware of their proximity for a second. He found just the right page. A curt smile twisted the corner of his mouth upwards. Oh, this is simply brilliant. </p><p>“<em>‘Gloria Scott’,</em>” he read triumphantly, “<em>‘is a local cryptid nearly as old as the town itself. It is a fleeting, yet vicious spirit bound to the small island in the middle of the Reichenbach Lake. Her precise origins are unknown as I have never visited her personally yet due to my fear of water, but by the logical process she shouldn’t be any different from a regular angry spirit or ghost - find the cursed object binding her to the physical realm and destroy it.’</em>”</p><p>Sam and Dean regarded him with a careful look. </p><p>“I guess we understand more than you expected,” John said, amused by how the tables have turned. He and Sherlock exchanged mischievous glances. </p><p>What happened next caught Sherlock completely off-guard. Dean launched himself forward to snatch the journal from him, but John was faster, stepping between them and holding the journal above his head. </p><p>“Nu-uh! Dibs!” he said loudly in Dean’s face, who stopped mere millimeters away from his own. When he straightened his back, he was a head taller than John. </p><p>“Fuck, he called the dibs, Sam,” he muttered under his breath. He turned to his friend, hands resting on hips. “<em>Dibs</em>.”</p><p>Sam nodded, rubbing his chin in an attempt to hide his amusement. John’s arm dipped backwards to hand Sherlock the journal back, which he took rather impressed and grateful for his reflexes. </p><p>“There’s more written on Gloria,” Sherlock picked up on where he left off, but he kept the journal closed. His fingers danced atop the weather-worn leather as he contemplated their next step. “We can help each other out if you let us. The journal can be of help.”</p><p>Dean sighed, looking quite put out, but content. “I hope you do know what you’re getting involved with,” he said sternly, putting his shades back on. John and Sherlock high-fived at the former’s initiation. </p><p>“We fought a swarm of pixies with a shovel and air-freshener,” John said proudly. “I doubt a ghost can be any more challenging.”</p><p>“You’d be surprised,” Sam said, chin tipping towards the boat. “We’d better get going, then. We’re Sam and Dean Winchesters, by the way. Brothers,” he added, motioning to the two of them.</p><p>John took it on himself to properly introduce them. “John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>“Right, let’s go, Ghostbusters,” Dean nodded once and marched off to the boat. “But if you become dead weight, I’m leaving you on your own.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, Gloria Scott, eh? I borrowed a bit of her lore from ACD canon, though obviously adjusted it as it fit, but more of that later... Poor Henry is right and only four people are aware...</p><p>Well, there's first chapter out of five from ep2! What do you think, is Dean going to soften up a little? Will he be fast enough next time to call the dibs? And will Greg find his fishing permit? Schmackles, we will have to see on the 30th!<br/>Also, hah, Sherlock trying to be suave about his feelings, but is he? Hmmmm</p><p>Anyway, this is my romantic que to go and do my homework~ I have tests from chemistry and biology and russian (my 3rd lingo) seminars next week (+ slovak). I'm about to get my butt whooped! How are you all? I hope you all are good and healthy :)<br/>I'll see you next Wednesday!</p><p>Updated: 25.9. 2020<br/>Word count: 6547<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee, who does fanart for us: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you, and I wish you all a pleasant day/night, wherver you are~</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Gloria Scott II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a kleptomaniac racoon</p><p>episode 2, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! We're back with another RF chapter, this time Irene POV! We finally get a more in-depth look at Sherlock's comparably brilliant step-sister, and her own little case of the day~</p><p>Thank you all for reading, kudos, and kind comments, you're the best! &lt;3 *hugs*</p><p>Special thanks to Dee and Bee, whom I bug with this fic when our schedules allow to &lt;3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene woke up gradually, stretching herself out on the springy mattress like a cat. She purred happily as her joints gave way and her vertebrae popped pleasingly. She kept her eyes shut, not letting the morning light blind her just yet. Eventually, after empty minutes of simply lying about in wakefulness, she decided the world was ready to bear her amazing, thrilling, exceptional and blissful presence. </p><p>She peaked over her arm at Sherlock’s empty bed. Of course the git wouldn’t sleep in during summer holidays. Workaholic, that one. As if he didn’t spend enough sleepless nights on studying in Toronto. He needs a serious break. </p><p>Or maybe he is fawning over John somewhere in the Shack? Or vice versa? It’s hard to determine with Sherlock, especially since his falling out with his childhood friend, but that’s a memory long forgotten. Sometimes. Honestly, if he could just see himself - the way he fell head over tits for John Watson (and he for Sherlock, for that matter) was almost comical. But he has a difficult time getting adjusted to stronger emotions than the usual loathing of the slower-minded people, namely open affection for other people. But it is there. It’s just hidden, and Irene will look after it to make sure it is unharmed and ready to strike when the time is right, like the good matchmaking sister she is. </p><p>With a grunt, she propped herself on her elbows, then her knees. The digital clock on her nightstand displayed the time: 8:45. She yawned and listened to the chirping outside the house. Ah, this was a nice change from London and Toronto. </p><p>She shuffled down from the attic room onto the second storey of the house where the bathroom was. The Shack was quiet, eerily so. Over the few days that they were here she got used to the static and orderly footsteps on the creaky floors and stairs, but it was almost like the house was fully empty. </p><p>Irene brushed her teeth and listened intently. Nothing, not even Lestrade’s coughs accompanying his smoking. Did they leave somewhere without her? </p><p>It’s not like she wasn’t used to people going about their business, but she could’ve gotten a heads-up. Sigh. Boys. Idiots, the three of them. That was partially why she was even happier for her infatuation with women. However, as it made a few things easier, it made a few things also a bit harder. That was to be expected in the dating sphere; no two people were the same. <em>Obviously</em>.</p><p>She thought back to their conversation in the attic after the pixie incident. She meant what she had said: she’s going to postpone dating anyone. She’s dated enough since sixth form in Britain till her first university year in Toronto. To be frank, it gave her enough experience to have an honest guide for herself of what she wanted, and she came to the conclusion (after finding out her newest girlfriend was three insane, motherless pixies in a goth cosplay) that she had no desire to stay in the realm of dating for an unknown period of time. </p><p>Instead, she will focus on those around her. Because God knows these fools need some divine guidance from her. Speaking of divine, her hair looked nice ruffled like this, looking at her reflection in the mirror. But yes - <em>matchmaking</em>. And who else to try it out on other than Sherlock and John? She was repeating herself now, but there really was something about them that ticked off all the right senses for her. And them. But enough of that, ew. </p><p>So yes, Irene will have to disappoint and break lots of hearts this summer. Horrible, she knew, but even the best in this field needed a gap year (okay, not a year - but a few months to gather her thoughts, perhaps?) and there wasn’t a better opportunity than precisely right now. And besides…. Was it even worth it? She did date a lot of people, and there was nothing wrong with that. But thinking back, it wasn’t fulfilling, was it? She met a lot of interesting people along the way, but she never felt anything stronger for any of her dates. Not even for Normandy, though they did step onto the ‘girlfriend’ territory quite quickly. </p><p>Why? She took genuine interest in her people of choice, yet there never were deeper feelings involved. Sure, her dating life may have been hasty, but even that one ‘relationship’ with a long-term friend yielded no romantic results. She did like them all, if they didn’t turn out to be bitches, but… Damn, her head hurt from all this reevaluating. Good thing she was taking a break, she needs to clear her head out on this matter.</p><p>So. She’s the single, yet a very experienced dating coach that’s temporarily retired. Sounds about right. </p><p>She flossed, nodded at herself, washed her face and returned to the attic to change into her favourite grey yoga pants and black tank top. She trotted downstairs into the kitchen where she found Mrs Hudson reading the local newspaper. She was wearing red rimmed glasses that suited her rather nicely. </p><p>“Morning, Mrs Hudson,” Irene greeted her, fetching herself a glass of water. “Where is everyone?”</p><p>“Oh, Greg took the boys to the Reichenbach Lake,” the woman said, turning the page. As if she sensed Irene’s frown, she added, “They went early to get a good spot for fishing. You were still asleep, dear. Don’t take it personally.”</p><p>“I’m not,” Irene said, even though she did feel a pang of sadness, distantly. Sherlock could’ve at least come in and asked her whether she was interested. Sure, she may have punched him since it was too early, but it’s about the principle. Well, they went fishing, not a particularly thrilling thing to do. Hell, she was sure even Sherlock hated it but he must’ve gone because they either forced him or because of John. Or both. </p><p>“Anyway,” Mrs Hudson said, rousing from her chair, motioning for Irene to sit. “What would you like for breakfast? I made pancakes for the boys on John’s request, they’re his favourite, but I can make you anything.”</p><p>“I’m fine with a toast, thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Irene said, lips curling. She sensed her opportunity to ask about John. She cleared her throat and drank more water. “So, how long have you known John?”</p><p>“Oh, ever since he was nine or ten, I suppose,” Mrs Hudson said, pulling out cheese from the refrigerator and slices of toast from the upper cupboard. “I was hired eleven years ago, just got back from Florida. Greg was in need of an upkeeper and I fit the criteria - plus we knew each other before that, so I started working immediately and John has been coming over every summer. He was - still is - such a cute boy. Polite and brave, responsible…”</p><p>She trailed off while buttering the toast and slapping it onto a heated pan. She was making Irene grilled cheese. Well, it was too late to protest that now. </p><p>“Does he have friends here?” Irene asked, playing with her glass. </p><p>“Hm, I say ‘friends’, but they’re more like acquaintances,” Mrs Hudson said. “They’re not the sort John likes to stick around with much for long. Well, maybe Mike Stamford and Kate, but besides them, there’s not really anyone he would seek out. I think he clicked better with your brother and you in the span of a week than with the rest over years.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Oh, believe me. He’s been happier than ever. I don’t want to speak for him, but his home life isn’t ideal from what Greg told me. That’s why he always took John here ever since he was a small boy, to get him some safe space for rest.”</p><p>“Sorry, it’s not like I want to pry,” Irene said, brows knitting into a slight frown. “John is very nice, it’s hard to imagine him being sad or unsociable.” </p><p>“I know what you mean. He’s a caretaker to the core….” Mrs Hudson flipped the toast and added sliced cheese on top. The butter sizzled and the kitchen was engrossed in a tasty savoury aroma. “Indeed, his family could be overwhelming. Greg has been more of his immediate family than those people.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson tsked and shook her head. Irene couldn’t imagine having unsupportive parents. This added to her admiration for John. Not only was he a good looking badass who could wreak havoc when equipped with a shovel, he kept a positive mental attitude in spite of his apparently shitty upbringing. That showed his real strength - his kindness and cheerfulness.</p><p>“Did he date anyone here?” Irene asked again, careful with her inquiring tone. It would probably be for the best if they left the topic of John’s past for the time being. Irene could ask him for herself if the opportunity arose in the future. She realised how her question may have come off, so she hastily added, “I’m not asking for me -”</p><p>Mrs Hudson fixed her with a sly smile, the wrinkles around her twinkling eyes deepening. “Oh, don’t worry, he has only ever had eyes for our Sherlock.”</p><p>“Oh God, I thought it was only me who thought they’re that obvious,” Irene laughed, joined by the upkeeper. “You should’ve seen them the first time they met.”</p><p>“Love at first sight, I imagine,” Mrs Hudson mused, plating the finished grilled cheese. She put it on the table for Irene to dig into and went to wash the dishes. “Too bad these two are blind as bats to their mutual affection.”</p><p>“Right? They’re impossible. I tried talking sense to Sherlock but he wouldn’t hear of it. But I know what I see, and they’re both in trouble.”</p><p>“Indeed they are,” Mrs Hudson sat back down opposite Irene. The look in her eyes was suddenly distant, as though remembering something. “I’ve never seen John taken so strongly by anything until Sherlock and you showed up in his life.”</p><p>“I wonder how long it will take them to realise,” Irene said. While it was true that Sherlock had opened up over the past few days and overcame his fear of speaking to John and facing him, he remained clueless to the desire both boys had for each other. Really, even John’s crush was making itself known with every passing day. Idiots.</p><p>Irene took a bite of her grilled cheese. She moaned and bit off another mouthful. “It’s delicious, Mrs Hudson!”</p><p>“Thank you, dear,” she said, the sound of the front doors opening and closing echoed throughout the hallway. “How about we get a pool going? I’m sure Greg will join in on this conspiracy of ours.”</p><p>“Join what?” Greg said appearing from the hall. He was a little sweaty and out of breath. Irene heard Mrs Hudson mutter <em>‘Smoking,’</em> before she explained what they were discussing. “Oh yeah, count me in, but we have to put it aside until later - have you seen my fishing permit, Hudders?”</p><p>Mrs Hudson scowled at the nickname and shook her head. “I swear on my apron, Greg, you wouldn’t last on your own for one day. Stay here, I’ll look for it.”</p><p>Lestrade looked inside the fridge for a can of soda which he promptly drank in a few long gulps. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. </p><p>“Where are John and Sherlock?” Irene asked innocently, popping her last bit of the cheesy toast into her mouth. “Stayed at the Lake?”</p><p>“Yeah, they decided to stay put and wait,” Lestrade said, then grimaced. “Shit, sorry. We didn’t want to wake you up and I thought we could have a day out, boys only. It just sort of happened, it wasn’t intentional to leave you behind because we don’t want you to.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Irene waved dismissively. “I don’t find fishing engaging, I know I’m not losing out on anything.”</p><p>“Jeez, you talk like Sherlock. No mistake you’re siblings.”</p><p>“Step-siblings, as Sherlock would correct.”</p><p>“Does it matter?”</p><p>“To him, apparently.”</p><p>Irene heard the bitterness in her tone, but ignored it. Greg hummed, looking at his shoes - he noticed it all too well, but she was glad he didn’t push it further. To Irene, Sherlock was probably the best brother she could have wished for. When their parents met when they were five and six respectively, and she immediately took a liking to him. He was bizzare to other children, who wrote him off as some freakish little monster due to his obsession with science, but Irene found it fascinating.</p><p>True, they were each other’s pain in the arse, but she loved him like she loved her dad and mum (step-mother, Sherlock’ mom, but she started calling her mum long ago), and they were a chaotic duo that worked well together when they weren’t at their throats. </p><p>Sherlock, however, seemingly didn’t think so. It hurt, but if Sherlock didn’t feel comfortable calling her or taking her as just his sister, she wouldn’t complain. It’s his decision to do that, after all.</p><p>Silence stretched between them uncomfortably, but at last Mrs Hudson emerged from the house, passing Greg his fishing permit. “It was on the mantel in your office,” she said.</p><p>“You’re a blessing Hudders,” Greg said, holding the thin laminated permit between two fingers. He kissed Mrs Hudson on her cheek and marched off. Irene found herself following the two outside the Shack where the warm sun heated up the lot. </p><p>“Now I have to hurry so John and Sherlock don’t die of boredom or aren’t robbed by those vicious tourists from Texas,” he said, waving the permit around. Irene looked at Mrs Hudson questioningly, but she only lifted her eyebrows in agreement. “Next trip, I’m taking you with us, Irene. Or come now, if you’re amenable.”</p><p>“I’ll pass and tag next time as long as it doesn’t include smelly fish,” Irene muttered, her eyes falling on a stray racoon that waddled over to Lestrade’s car, sniffing at the tires curiously. Greg was apparently an animal lover, because the moment he spotted the little cretin he crouched and greeted him in a silly voice Irene knew Sherlock used with dogs when he thought no one was nearby. Only Greg had no shame.</p><p>“Hey there, little buddy!” Greg said, looking over his shoulder at the two women. “Isn’t he cute?”</p><p>“Greg, I don’t think -” Mrs Hudson began, but the man’s attention span was fully on the animal again, offering it his hand to smell. Even Irene was aware that forest animals could carry rabies (hold on, weren’t the rabid ones fearless and hard to scare away?) and other illnesses - and going out to pet one was certainly a stupid move. People could be such idiots sometimes, Sherlock was right. </p><p>“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson, he is okay. Aren’t you, you little adorable beast?”</p><p>“Did this happen before?” Irene asked, her eyebrows knitting in slight concern. </p><p>“With racoons? No. But there was this woodpecker and a doe… And then that petrol junkie deer a couple days back… One would think he was a Disney princess with that attitude.”</p><p>Irene snickered at the remark, and it did seem like it. That is, if Disney princesses were buff, thirty-something-year-old men with greying hair and a nasty cough from smoking about a dozen cigarettes a day. Well, possibly after their main arc after the credits ended. They <em>did </em>leave it sort of ambiguous…. </p><p>The racoon tiptoed forth, Lestrade offering it his palm and fingers in which he held the permit. The fluffy animal’s nose twitched adorably as it categorised Greg’s odour. And then, without any warning whatsoever, the racoon charged at him, ripping the permit from Lestrade’s fingers, examining it with interest. </p><p>Greg was stunned to say the least. Mrs Hudson closed her eyes and sighed, crossing her arms and leaning on a support beam on the porch. Irene put up two fingers to her lips to keep herself from laughing as Lestrade recovered from his trance. </p><p>“Okay…. This is not what I envisioned my morning to go like,” he said, exhaling sharply through his nose. He slowly crouched closer to the racoon as not to spook it into the forest. “Hey there, buddy. Give it back, will you? There, just let me… I’ll take it, if you don’t mind…. My nephew and Sherlock are waiting….<em> Shit!</em>”</p><p>Greg misstepped and tumbled down on his knee, spooking the racoon, which promptly jumped up, startled, and it fled for the porch. Irene yelped as the animal ran her way, and off went the racoon under the house, Greg’s permit with it. </p><p>“I’ll get the brooms,” Mrs Hudson sighed and disappeared back into the Shack without batting an eyelid. </p><p>Greg hurried to crouch by the porch, the wooden fencing obscuring his line of sight. The only available source of lightning under the porch were a few scattered sun beams penetrating the shadows here and there, obviously not enough. The only thing that gave the racoon away was the sound of his paws clawing at the Shack’s foundation in the far back under the porch and slight purring as it went about his day without having a clue what it had caused. </p><p>“Why do these adoable little devils always fuck up my plans?” Greg growled under his breath, assessing the situation. He sat on the balls of his feet heaving a deep sigh. “Fuck’s sake.”</p><p>“Accidents happen,” Irene said, squatting next to him. “Racoons are curious, or so I’ve heard from my pen pal from Ohio. What if we bribed him with food?”</p><p>“Not a bad idea. Hudders? Can you bring us some salami?” he called as Mrs Hudson emerged from inside the house, carrying just that, probably foreseeing their options. She had a broom fixed to her belt somewhat like a sword, ready to be unsheathed. Greg thanked her, took a plate with pieces of cut deli from the upkeeper and kneeled closer to the porch. </p><p>Greg putted at the racoon, making kissy noises to get the animal’s attention. The scratching stopped, and Irene leaned down and squinted to make out where the little thief was. This was rather amusing, if she were to be honest. First pixies, then a racoon stealing fishing permits. Not as exciting and it obviously couldn’t be compared, and she wondered if Sherlock and John were experiencing something similarly interesting right now. </p><p>A pang of jealousy tucked at her chest, though. The thought of the two boys having a supernatural adventure together without her amazing badassery (hey, it was true) was saddening and it made her feel a teeny bit left out, but well. She overslept, she couldn’t blame them. She wouldn’t hold a grudge, they had the whole summer to figure out the journal. One half day without them won’t be an issue. </p><p>“There’s the bugger,” Greg whispered, showing it a circle of salami. Indeed, the racoon inched closer, it’s cute snout twitching at the undeniably delicious smell. Fortunately, he was still holding the permit in its paw. </p><p>“Don’t hurt him,” both Irene and Mrs Hudson pleaded, to which Greg nodded. Of course he wouldn’t hurt the creature, Irene thought, he was a Disney princess down to the core. Oh, what a wonderful inside joke to have!</p><p>Greg’s and Irene’s shoulders were almost touching, and she suddenly thought it would be great to take a picture of this scene playing out in front of them. She creeped up closer to the hole in the fencing through which the racoon got in and took her phone out as sneakily as possible. </p><p>The racoon tardily waddled up to Lestrade’s hand. He bared his upper lip, showcasing his tiny yet pointy yellowish teeth, cautiously nipping the salami from Greg’s fingers. Greg withdrew his hand and placed another piece of deli meat on it, carefully offering it to the racoon once it was done eating the first bit. </p><p>Irene snapped pictures, gathering evidence as to why Greg was indeed a part of the Disney world. Call it an investigation of her own, if you will. Sherlock has the mystery journal as his summer part-time job, she has this. Perfectly balanced, as all things should be. </p><p>Suddenly, the racoon turned its head to Irene, its black beetle eyes fixed on her. They were strangely hollow and they reminded her of those creepy costumes of Mickey Mouse some people wore. Despite the wave of uneasiness, she lowered her phone and snapped another picture of the animal, the rising sun from behind the pine trees casting a warm halo on its grey-and-black fur. </p><p>Greg sensed his opportunity to snatch his fishing permit back and used his free hand to sneak up to the piece of laminated paper, which was quite useless if you asked him (what did it prove anyway? Donovan could’ve just ignored it like most of the time but noo, she chose to be exceptionally dutiful today!). He wanted this tedious misfortune to be over already so that he could get back to John and Sherlock. He really wanted to spend some time with his nephew, and Sherlock could use some company as well. It didn’t take a genius to figure that Sherlock was a bit socially awkward, even though he seemed to adjust rather well to the Shack (and John). </p><p>But the moment Greg leaned in to grab the permit, the racoon once again surpassed them. He charged at the yelling Irene, who fell on her butt, trying to dodge the furball, but the cretin, obviously not as innocent anymore, held onto Greg’s permit and with it’s other paw he stole Irene’s phone, running back under the porch. </p><p>Irene gaped. Greg facepalmed. Mrs Hudson masked her amusement by coughing into her fist. No one uttered a word for a while and then Irene stood up, dusting her yoga pants. </p><p>“That’s it, now it’s personal!” </p><p>“Oh dear, waging a war on forest fauna? I saw a movie with Brendan Fraser once, it didn’t go well,” Mrs Hudson said, putting a hand over her heart, even though her eyes twinkled. </p><p>“Yes, but he was deforesting the area, I was only taking cute pictures for my Instagram!” Irene defended herself, peering into the hole in the porch fencing. “Listen here, you little devil - I’ll get you and the permit, even if I have to summon Lord English for that!”</p><p>“Now, now, that’s too much,” Mrs Hudson mused, no scolding in her tone. Greg dragged himself to his feet and patted Irene on the shoulder. </p><p>“We’ll get your phone, but I’ll go and fetch John and Sherlock first,” he said, pointing with his thumb to his car. </p><p>“Hell no! I’m not letting that racoon win! I’ll get my phone AND your permit, even if it is the death of me! You’ll have your fishing day with John and Sherlock and I’ll destroy that little cretin! I haven’t absolved British Scouts to get robbed by a sorry-arsed fluffy raccoon. Mrs Hudson, I need gloves and a face mask, possibly a shovel. And air-freshener. Stay put, Greg.”</p><p>She stormed off into the Shack, front doors slamming shut behind her, creaking in their hinges. </p><p>“Dramatic much?” Greg huffed into the warming air, hands on his hips. He shed his jacket, it was getting too hot in the exposed yard. He rolled up his shirt sleeves. </p><p>Mrs Hudson shrugged, obviously entertained by the whole ordeal and she followed suit into the house. Both women were back in a matter of minutes, Irene especially equipped with thick garden gloves with which Mrs Hudson removed weeds and a pair of plastic goggles Greg associated with chemists and crazy scientists. He was handed a shovel and his upkeeper passed Irene the canned spray, this time with the scent of lemon. </p><p>“Right,” Irene said, “I could use John with the shovel - long story, not that old - but you’ll do. Just smack anything furry that may run out of there. We’re not taking any chances. With any luck, I’ll spray the racoon into oblivion, it passes out, I drag it out and we toss it back in the forest for some fae people or whoever to sort it out.”</p><p>Greg had trouble understanding half her sentences, or the feisty angst (he’d rather just give up and have a day off for once, getting plan B in motion or something), but he nodded and got ready. He had just noticed the suspenders on Irene’s knees when she started crawling through the hole under the porch, wondering where they had it from. Ah, well. Mrs Hudson was always ready for anything, he supposed. </p><p>“What’s that girl doing, Ma?” a small boy asked, making Irene stop midway through her crawl. She came back out, brows furrowed at a family of five that had gathered round. Shit, he would almost forget that the Shack was open. </p><p>Greg groaned internally, having no desire what-so-fucking-ever to deal with tourists today. Even having opened the fishing season didn’t stop the foot traffic around here (and yet there was almost no parking space there!). He exchanged glances with Mrs Hudson, who also seemed uncertain of what to do. The cash would always come in handy, but…</p><p>Irene spoke first. “I’m going to de-ghostify our porch,” she said in a very serious tone. The boy gasped, clutching his mother’s skirt more tightly. The two older kids looked intrigued, but their parents were clearly skeptical. As if on cue, the racoon scratched viciously on the wood underneath and screeched taking everyone by surprise. More people started gathering around them. </p><p>Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He should’ve called an exterminator, or a veterinarian to extract the animal. Why were <em>cutesy </em>animals his weakness? </p><p>“Can we watch you do it?” Greg’s head snapped up. It was an older brother of the small boy. </p><p>“For five dollars an hour per person,” Irene said immediately. When Greg stared at her mutely, mouth agape, she added for only him to hear, “I want fifty-percent of the money afterwards.”</p><p>And with that she dove under the porch, kids and adults cheering her on, her spray ready for use. Everyone expected her to be done in half an hour, hoping they’d get to pay half the price while Mrs Hudson collected the money - after all, it’s just a stupid small animal, right?</p><p>Oh, no. </p><p>Not at all.  </p><p>It took most of the day to sort out. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, Greg continues his Disney princess streak and fails, the three of them ship johnlock, and Irene is on her way to matchmake.... how, we will see eventually. It's more like she's the devil and the angel on their shoulders, whispering tempting ideas as both divine beings. At least that's my picture of her when she goes talking about it xD<br/>What did you like? I personally also like how Greg just rolls with whatever Mrs Hudson throws at him, now also with Irene. Man, the tales Mrs Hudson has about Greg... </p><p>Next chapter is coming on the 5th of October folks! We'll be back to our supernatural quartet :)</p><p>Now I'm off to cram for slovak exam from humanism and renaissance, and prepare for my russian oral examination, and I haven't prepped yet. Procrastination who? Oh, right, it's called crippling anxiety from having too many responsibilities! </p><p>But enough of that! I hope you all are doing well! How's life treating ya? I hope you don't get robbed by any conspicuous racoons ;)<br/>See you in five!<br/>Also, comments are as always encouraged, 100% appreciated and cherished! </p><p>Updated: 30.9.2020<br/>Word count: 4394<br/>My humble tumbrl: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's tumblr (she does our fanart and many more!): : <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thnak you for reading, and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Gloria Scott III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are nerves lost and havoc wreaked</p><p>episode 2, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi, Reichenbach Falls are back! POV Sherlock, we're getting on the mysterious island where Gloria may reside... </p><p>Also as always, thank you all for reading, leaving a kudo, comment, anything! :3 Posting the chapters gives me a great deal of happiness, knowing that there are people who read it, hihi c: </p><p>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, my partners in crime~</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The motor boat creased the still and quiet waters of the Reichenbach Lake, the mechanic sounds dulled by the water’s volume. Sherlock and John studied the curious case of Gloria Scott while Sam and Dean navigated further, finding a good spot to park the boat at. </p><p>Eventually, the journal revealed, the author forced himself to overcome his fear of water, at least to a tolerable enough level and they set out to investigate the haunted island on the lake. The ghost was indeed as ancient as the town of Reichenbach Falls itself, and what was even more exciting was that she was able to talk under certain circumstances that weren’t purely related to her murdering her victims. The author’s notes read as such:</p><p>
  <em>‘I visited Gloria under Full Moon yesterday. It rained, and not even my umbrella was capable of shielding me enough throughout the unpleasant confrontation. Unpleasant due to my curiosity taking over my common sense, which prompted me to push the topic of her demise to the surface. I pride myself on my more than capable charisma skills, but I admit I was impatient. Suffice to say, I was lucky to escape unharmed, save for the soaked-through clothing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It would therefore be ill-judged to return on the island any time soon. Gloria has become known for her tempers, and it appears I have miscalculated her ability to tolerate me to an extreme extent. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am aware her ghostification is linked to the death of her sailor husband somehow and possibly the wreck under the lake’s waters, but as is obvious, she did not elaborate, but rather chose to raise a small storm with the intent of drowning me. I fear she may begin another spree of killing residents nearby to the area, so I will be monitoring it accordingly with L. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>To conclude the issue at hand, she is easily tipped off by queries about her past, and she refuses to cooperate, making it difficult to locate her last link with this world as she continues to haunt her island. I wish to return there when the situation presents itself.’</em>
</p><p>“Who is ‘L’?” John asked. “A co-author?”</p><p>“Possibly,” Sherlock said, fingers brushing the yellowed surface of the book. “It isn’t signed, but the writing style doesn’t change throughout. Maybe ‘L’ was just the author’s companion.”</p><p>“Right, but it didn’t tell us a thing on how to deal with the ghost,” Dean chimed in, peering over the top of the journal’s pages. “Although it isn’t that hard. We’ve done it plenty of times, but if she’s as twitchy as your journal says, we’re in for some work. You sure you don’t want to hand it over to us?”</p><p>“I thought we already established that,” Sherlock grumbled, returning to the journal. “But there are instructions on how to present yourself to her so she doesn’t become hostile right away.”</p><p>“And those are?”</p><p>“You absolutely cannot bear any weapons, she can sense them,” Sherlock told them, getting a chuckle out of Dean. </p><p>“Over my dead body,” he said seriously.</p><p>“Quite literally.”</p><p>“Right, am I supposed to just believe that?”</p><p>“Do I look like I fool around with the supernatural?”</p><p>“Ladies, please,” Sam said from behind them, navigating the motor. “Less bickering, more figuring out what to do. I know for one that I don’t want to end up at the bottom of the lake today.” </p><p>Dean sighed exasperatedly, but didn’t complain further. Sherlock continued. </p><p>“She apparently asks what you do and who you are, and anything connected to sea work and the navy or such is considered out of bounds. She likes to hover over you, bringing the question up multiple times.”</p><p>“That’s repetitive,” John stated, leaning into Sherlock’s shoulder.</p><p>“Obviously, John.” Then, realising how that must’ve sounded, he hastily added, “Sorry.”</p><p>“No worries.”</p><p>“Right,” he cleared his throat, skimming the pages once more. “It says here that she tries to sometimes lure you into a small pond somewhere on the island, even forcing nature on you if she gets angered. But she herself avoids a spot north of the island that leads to the waterfall upstream.”</p><p>“So we’re dealing with a neurotic, paranoid, insecure, and possibly senile female ghost,” Sam concluded, slowing the motor down as the small island approached. </p><p>“Yep,” Sherlock popped the consonant, closing the journal with a sharp thud, tucking it into his backpack. </p><p>The atmosphere around the island thickened the closer they got. Mist descended upon them like a blanket and the damp air mucked their lungs unpleasantly. Sherlock knew that his curls would be frizzy at the end of the day, already groaning internally with the tediousness of the effort he will have to put into taming his hair. Startlingly, Sherlock realised that the sun was obscured by the mist to the point the current ‘weather’ resembled late autumn, not summer. </p><p>“Did the journal mention anything about this?” John nudged Sherlock with his knee, but he shook his head. That was indeed strange. Could it be that the weather just changed this drastically over the whole town? “Bummer. I wish I had the shovel with me.”</p><p>At mention of the shovel, Sherlock abruptly turned to face the blond. “John, you’re brilliant!”</p><p>Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John’s puzzled expression as he asked Dean if they got any garden equipment. John blinked, once, twice. Then gave Sherlock a warm, pleased smile. </p><p>“Yeah, actually,” he said, and Sam slowed down the boat as they came to a halt at a tiny cold beach. The front of the boat bore into the wet sand, parting it and ruffling the sand particles in an inverted ‘V’ shape. </p><p>All four of them scattered out onto the firm ground, John taking the sack full of weapons from Sam, gasping before he readjusted his grip on it. “It’s heavier than it looks.”</p><p>Sam smiled and dragged the boat a bit further from the water, in any case it would somehow manage to get itself on the lake’s matted surface in their absence. John carefully put the bag with weapons down under Dean’s scrutinising gaze, taking a shallow step back. Sherlock crouched next to Dean, opening his backpack again frantically. John kept close to him. </p><p>“We’ve got two shovels, one is broken in half,” Dean started naming their arsenal. Sherlock glanced inside the bag which was full of guns as well, but he didn’t care to inspect the types. “A rake, a hatchet, this weird rounded scythe you connect with communists, hedge shears, flower shears, and a bulb planter.”</p><p>“Where did that come from again?” Sam asked, kneeling beside Sherlock on his side opposite of Dean.</p><p>“No idea. So, what’s the verdict, Ghostbusters?”</p><p>Sherlock consulted the journal’s pages once more, leaving a finger on the one with information on Gloria and listing back until he found the page with incantations. Weapons were out of the equation, for one reason or another, but garden equipment was hardly made for harm, wasn’t it? Not that they would go into offensive, no. </p><p>“Dean, it’s obvious you don’t feel comfortable without any form of protection, so I’m granting you your wish,” Sherlock said, deciding which incantation he was going to use. “Guns are usually manufactured with the intention of shooting something or someone, so it would make sense that Gloria would have an aversion towards those. It hints at a bigger issue, which may be connected to her death and why she’s stuck here. However, shovels and similar tools aren’t really all that threatening, are they? They’re made to be useful, not harmful. There is this verse which can mask the tools temporarily for three hours and it also has an anti-ectoplasmic shield. How the author acquired it or invented it, I’ve no idea, but it won’t hurt to try it.”</p><p>He looked up from the journal to see the three men staring at him. John’s face was neutral, but he had a supportive gleam in his eyes, Sam looked thoughtful (but the corners of his lips tilted up), and Dean seemed mildly, <em>faintly</em> impressed. </p><p>“That’s pretty damn smart,” John said, shifting his weight from one leg to another. He patted Sherlock on the back lightly, but strongly enough so that it sent shivers down his spine. </p><p>Sherlock tried to suppress his self-satisfied smirk as he scrambled some humble response. “Just a logical conclusion. I may be wrong.” <em>Here’s to hope that it doesn’t repeat the scissor incident</em>.</p><p>“Too late not to consider taking the risk, Dean said, managing the garden tools, Sam helping him arrange them on the sand. </p><p>“I’d leave the hatched and the scissors here,” Sherlock advised. “They are too sharp to pass as something non-threatening, but we may take the scythe.”</p><p>Dean nodded, tossing the items they won’t need back into the sack. Good, he doesn’t have to worry about flying scissors now. In the end, John took the shovel, Sam took the broken one, and Dean kept the scythe. Sherlock didn’t fancy carrying anything besides the journal (which he hid to prevent the pages from absorbing too much moisture from the air) or his backpack. He fished a baseball cap out from one of its pockets and put it on his curls to try limit his hair’s exposure to the same air. He didn’t want to look ridiculous. </p><p>The plan was to scavenge the small island, which was actually bigger than it seemed at first, and locate Gloria. It was quarter past nine when they set out, and neither John nor Sherlock thought about Lestrade and whether he would be looking for them. Conversation steered naturally between Sam and John, the taller man inquiring about the town and how come they became involved with the mysteries. John answered enthusiastically, his sociable personality shining through as he told him about their pixie adventure just a number of days ago. </p><p>“Aren’t they the same as fairies?” Sam asked, but before John could answer, Sherlock chimed in from behind them. </p><p>“No. They belong in the same family, but they’re completely different. They live in swarms, like bees or ants.”</p><p>“They don’t sound like good company,” Dean nodded, scratching his chin. “One time a fairy smacked me in the face. It hurt, not gonna lie.” A moment of silence, and then he added, “And it had <em>nipples</em>.” </p><p>Everyone ignored that.</p><p>“Yes, they’re rather annoying. One landed on my hair and my step-sister thought it would be a good idea to hit me across the head with the journal.”</p><p>That made Dean and Sam bark out a laugh, and John rather turned to observe the dark trees around them to let Sherlock know he also found the memory amusing. </p><p>“You have to admit, she acted fast and found even a mundane journal to be possibly lethal,” Dean said, shrugging. “That’s a good skill to have.” </p><p>Sherlock hummed in response, adjusting his cap a little. The warm, humid air made him sweat and he hated it. The hair that stuck out from under the cap curled up on itself even more. Amazing. He’ll look like an electrocuted sheep.</p><p>Twigs snapped to their right, alerting the group into rigidness as they all narrowed their eyes on an unknown spot, but they saw no one. Dean’s hand shot to the scythe automatically, and John took a step back to shield Sherlock, though he didn’t invade his personal space. </p><p>“Do we know what she looks like?” Sam’s voice woke them up from the trance. He looked at Sherlock, juggling the shovel in his hand. </p><p>“The journal didn’t provide any description,” he said truthfully. “Nor an illustration, which is strange. Usually the creatures come with at least a sketch.”</p><p>“Quite the devoted mystery-solver, that guy,” Dean said, prompting them to move forward again. </p><p>“Or a woman,” both John and Sam said in unison. They fist-bumped, too, much to Sherlock’s curiosity. Dean acknowledged they had a point with a jerk of his chin and they delved deeper into the forest. </p><p>They walked, the thick air becoming more difficult to breathe in some places, namely those near small ponds that were scattered across the quiet island. It felt completely deserted. A thought that maybe the ghost of Gloria Scott wouldn’t be there during the day crossed Sherlock’s mind, but the author made no such observation. He trusted the journal. And, he trusted John completely and to some extent even the Winchester brothers, so he wasn’t the only insane person here. </p><p>Eventually they made it to the north of the island, having circled almost the whole of it and tracking criss-cross it as well. And there, where they could see a slim passage leading up to the small waterfall, was a vast space of the lake reflecting the sun. As if there were an invisible barrier separating the island from the rest of the world. At the border of the beach and water was a small, rotting cottage. It had no roof, not counting the few support beams leaving space for imagination as to make out the shape of the would-be top of the shabby ruins. The rock walls were slimy and covered in moss, which reminded Sherlock of England and its secluded places like this one, though less eerie. </p><p>“What now?” John turned to Sherlock, putting a hand over Sherlock’s elbow to steady him as they stepped over a slippery tree trunk. Both of them were a bit behind the Winchester brothers. In the meantime, Sam and Dean creeped up to the ruins to inspect them, half-shovel and scythe at their disposal. </p><p>Sherlock assessed the area. He focused his senses on what was before them; the distant sound of foamy waterfall hidden by the rock formulations surrounding the lake, the mist that receded further down the beach where it met the water, and the absence of any wind whatsoever. </p><p>“We’ll have to wait and see,” he murmured, pursing his lips. </p><p>With every passing second, the presence of a fifth <em>something </em>made itself clearer and more ominous. Dean and Sam undoubtedly noticed because they backtracked to John and Sherlock, meeting the two halfway on the sandy beach. Grouping up was definitely a wise decision. </p><p>And just like that, from the mist among the trees that lifted above the ground, a translucent figure of a woman appeared in front of their very eyes. Sherlock and John stared wide eyed. They’ve never seen a ghost before, thinking it impossible until this summer. Dean and Sam, on the other hand, inhaled and exhaled sharply, mentally getting ready for an inevitable shitstorm that was dealing with the supernatural. What a world to live in!</p><p>The ghost of Gloria Scott made herself into a more coherent mass of ectoplasm, the wind and chill picking up a little. </p><p>“Sailors?” her small, surprisingly gentle and barely above whisper voice asked. </p><p>“Not sailors,” Sam said firmly, but softly. Dean tensed a little, his eyes narrowing at the ghost. Sherlock was sure he was calculating the risks and where the situation may escalate. They were no rookies in this. </p><p>The wind stopped, Gloria’s silhouette becoming a bit more refined, her blurry edges sharpening until she revealed herself to be looking like a gentlewoman from the nineteenth century. The image of her dress in which she most likely died in was ruffled and unkept, as if she wore it for days on end before her demise. <em>Why though?</em></p><p>“Why are you here?” her dark eyes (or whatever it was anymore) pierced each of them thoroughly, expecting to find a clue that would betray their foul intentions she must’ve been anticipating. </p><p>“Just visiting,” Dean said nonchalantly, putting a hand on his hip. His gaze didn’t falter away from the ghost. “We were on our way to vacation, we’re just stopping by. Eat a pie or something.”</p><p>Sherlock blinked and scrunched his face into a grimace lasting a second, wondering if this ever got Dean anywhere. He could see John from the corner of his eye stifling a chuckle. Gloria, fortunately, seemed to have ignored his comments. She just kept looking at them from her spot near the dark forest, hovering a few centimeters above the faint grass. </p><p>“Sailors?” she repeated, tilting her head down, her right hand falling to her left, fingers brushing over her ring finger. </p><p>“Not sailors,” Sam repeated as well, patiently. He straightened his posture, but not in a threatening way. </p><p>It was then that Gloria glided forward, her dress moving as though she were walking against a strong wind. “I’m waiting for someone - have you seen him?”</p><p>“Seen who?” Dean said before he could resist the urge. Sherlock wanted to slap his arm, but thought better of it. He focused on Gloria and her reaction. Yet again, she caressed her ring finger, where a shadow of an engagement ring was, but the real tangible ring hung around her neck on a silver chain. The air went a degree lower. Interesting. A theory started forming in Sherlock’s mind.</p><p>“He <em>is </em>coming back,” she whispered, more to herself than to them. She then looked at Sherlock, her blank face suddenly frowning. He felt a pang of unease; it was as though she recognised him, in spite of the fact that he’d never set foot on this soil in his life prior to this year. </p><p>“Aren’t you cold?” Gloria said next, rubbing her arms as if to make herself feel the warmth she has been missing for at least two centuries. </p><p>The group of four stood in front of her, unsure. Sherlock and Sam exchanged glances, communicating via eye contact as much as they could. Before they agreed on an answer, however, John took the lead. </p><p>“A bit, yeah.” <em>Oh, John</em>, Sherlock thought. So simplistic and naive, yet it seemed to have worked. If Sherlock had the time or space to think properly, he would say that John was a single tangent in this semi-darkness that was bestowed upon them. </p><p>Gloria turned her scrutinising attention to Sherlock’s friend, a sparkle in her eyes lasting a millisecond before disappearing. “Don’t go swimming, the water is cold. You will drown.”</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind,” John said briefly, eyebrows hitching up. Then he countered her with a question of his own. “How are you?”</p><p>A plain, yet dangerous question bordering on the <em>‘too personal’</em> level they wanted to avoid for now. Gloria tilted her head to the side imperceptibly, not distracted at all by John’s curiosity. </p><p>“Sailors?” she avoided the previous sentence, turning back to Sam with a chilling tone. He shook his head, negating it. </p><p>When Dean sighed, Sherlock took a deep breath, expecting this to take the wrong turn. </p><p>“Do you need our help?”</p><p><em>That wasn’t that foolish,</em> <em>actually</em>, Sherlock found himself thinking. It was obvious to him that Dean was the more hot-headed one when it came to comparing the brothers, but he thankfully wasn’t that stupid as he could’ve been. Sherlock liked when people defied his expectations. </p><p>Gloria looked to be contemplating what Dean had said before dismissing him with a shake of her head. “He’ll be back soon.” The gesture of touching her misplaced engagement ring repeated. </p><p>It was blatantly obvious she had been waiting for her fiancé, then, who had apparently never returned. An idiot would figure this much. But what about the sailor inquiry? The journal said she became hostile, which indicated a number of possibilities: she may have been murdered by sailors, but seeing as the dress and her figure looked almost completely normal save for the translucent body and the old-fashioned style of clothing; she may have been assaulted under the premise of a sailor helping her find her husband, or the husband was a sailor himself and his death had caused her grief so strong she had antagonised the profession. The careful and loving way with which she touched the ring, though, indicated that she was quite affectionate with the memory of her late fiancé. Or maybe he left her? No, she wasn’t insecure, it was exactly the opposite. She was sure he was coming back. And yet her eternal soul remained troubled. Could it be denial?</p><p>“When is he coming back?” It was now Sherlock’s turn to speak. Gloria froze and the other three in their company tensed as a slight wind crept up their bodies. </p><p>“Soon,” her voice was cold as ice. </p><p>“What’s his name?” Sherlock pushed, shifting his cap a little, wiping sweat away. This has not been mentioned in the journal, but it didn’t strike him to be <em>that </em>personal. </p><p>“James,” she replied after a while. “Are you his friend?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock said. Playing along may get them somewhere. </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“When’s your wedding?”</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“You’re wearing an engagement ring,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. He meant the ring hanging around her neck, but he decided to pretend it was in its usual place. “You keep touching it subconsciously when you speak of your fiancé and reassure yourself of his return.”</p><p>“He’s coming back soon.” Her tone had a bite to it, and the air temperature dropped even lower. Shivers went down Sherlock’s spine and Sam visibly shuddered. </p><p>“I’m not saying he’s not, just stating the obvious. It must be hard, waiting for him for long periods of time. Never too sure when exactly he is coming back.”</p><p>The former statement calmed Gloria down. The latter made her shake, her ghostly outline blurring noticeably, the sky above them falling dark. Sherlock knew he was walking on thin ice.</p><p>“We’ll marry when he comes back,” Gloria said icily, hands fidgeting. “He’ll marry me and we’ll live in peace in our cottage, alone and happy. Without you.”</p><p>Ah, so it was their supposed house. It didn’t live to see them together, as sad as it was. </p><p>“Will you wait with me near the water?” she proposed, gliding around them, floating down to the lake. Sherlock glared at the others to ensure they weren’t stupid enough to do so. Gloria was unintentionally tricking them, testing them. That apparently came hand-in-hand with becoming an angry ghost. “James will signal me with a lantern.”</p><p>However touchy she was about the topic of her past, she didn’t seem to mind talking about her fiancé. Why wasn’t this documented? Didn’t the author care to ask this? What was considered personal at this point? Why was Sherlock asking these pointless questions right now at this moment?</p><p>Dean stepped back and made a wide detour to the side, still far from Gloria and the water, yet close enough to jump back to aid the other three. His hand rested on the scythe. He cast Sherlock an impatient glance, waiting for something meaningful to happen. </p><p>“When did he become a sailor?”</p><p>There. He said the word. He had to take a risk.</p><p>Gloria froze, static building in the air like before a storm that has been holding out all summer, ready to wreak havoc. </p><p>“He is <em>not </em>a sailor,” she said, her words sharp. She rotated abruptly to face them all, her eyes glowing dark and almost demonic, boring into Sherlock as though she were damning his soul forever. “He is innocent!”</p><p>Well. There goes the hostility. </p><p>She sent out a wave of wind that knocked them down, gathering on intensivity. Sherlock felt strong arms on his shoulders as John helped him stay up,the former leaning against him back-to-stomach. </p><p>“<em>He is innocent!</em>”</p><p>Another crash of wind that, ironically, knocked their breaths out. Sparks cracked like fireworks in the air around them. Dean charged at Gloria with his scythe, but Gloria didn’t even lift a finger before another wave of wind knocked him back. Sherlock grabbed the journal and searched it for anything helpful. <em>Anything</em>. </p><p>“Sherlock?” John said, perched on one knee besides him. He rested his warm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “This isn’t the best time to read, you know?”</p><p>“There has to be more about her!” Sherlock barked in frustration. He snapped back to the ghost, irises scanning the locality for clues. She faced the waterfalls when talking about her fiancé, but there was no path that would make it possible to walk there, nor make a good pass for a boat unless the person in said boat was a daredevil who was crazy enough to fall down the waterfall. </p><p>Despite his better judgement, Sherlock stepped forward, flinching from John and Sam who tried to grab him. His frustration got the better of him. “Why would he come from the waterfall? There is nothing there!”</p><p>Gloria glared at him, her rage sending out a storm. “You’re not his friend.”</p><p>Simple statement. That didn’t prevent Sherlock from snarling back the usual retort, “Obviously! I’ve never even met him!”</p><p>
  <em>“You killed him!”</em>
</p><p>“Fairly impossible, I’m <em>not </em>a <em>sailor</em>.”</p><p>“Neither is James, he was unjustly imprisoned!”</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>A convict?</p><p>“Why was he taken to jail? Did a sailor murder him there?” he pushed. </p><p>A furious screech left Gloria’s throat, deafening them. John yanked Sherlock back with arms around his stomach just as a summoned tentacle made out of water reached out for his ankles to drag him under the lake. </p><p>“Honestly, Sherlock! What happened to ‘don’t provoke her’?” he snapped, watching the angry ghost break hell loose. </p><p>Sherlock didn’t respond. He didn’t even know what he expected from this encounter anymore, to be honest, but the slow pace with which Gloria communicated was enough to make him lose his nerves. He partially blamed his late teenage hormones and the humid weather (which he hated with the passion of a thousand suns), but his inner scientist was also to blame. He wanted to see how much it took to push the ghost over the edge (not much) and how much information she would eventually reveal herself. People do this unconsciously too, how is a ghost any different?</p><p>“James is coming soon,” Gloria said, her voice echoing across the beach. The water in the lake was forced back under a low tide, revealing a number of mostly-rotten corpses and skeletons that were coming to life. </p><p>
  <em>“You will die.”</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A bit of a cliffhanger to keep you on your toes :) How do you think they're going to manage? </p><p>So, I obviously also borrowed from the canon ACD story 'Gloria Scott' as I mentioned two chapters ago, but more will be revealed in the next chapter! How did you like it? Do you have any theories regarding the mystery journal? Who do you think 'L' is? :)) If you have any theories, feel free to share them, it'll be lovely to hear and read about them! My friend Dee has one started, though not about the mystery journal ;) more on that later~ But really, feel free to share your thoughts! :3</p><p>Fun fact: the fairy nipples is from an actual SPN episode, but I've no idea which season. I'm making slow progress through season 1, so that I can characterize them better later on in the season on this fic. The clip I found on youtube was hilarious, lol.</p><p>Also, see the touches John and Sherlock keep stealing from each other when situations get dire? Yeah, I see that too. </p><p>Next chapter coming up on Saturday October 10th!</p><p>How are you all doing? I hope life's treating you well &lt;3<br/>Don't get drowned by angry ghosts, lovelies!</p><p>As always, comments are 100% encourage and 200% appreciated and ~infinity%~ cherished!</p><p>Updated: 5.10.2020<br/>Word count: 4321<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of my friend Bee who does our fanart: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care and stay healthy,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Gloria Scott IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are skeletons and a lovely ghost bride</p><p>episode 2, chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! Second to last chapter of Gloria Scott is here! Finally, we get to know what happened to her, and how she became a ghost... <br/>I'm in a bit of a hurry to post it, but thank you all for reading and following this story!! :3 It means a ton y'all &lt;3</p><p>Special thanks as always to Bee and Dee, who I'm going to bug soon to review all my edits for episode 3~</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Ah, shit,” Dean and Sam said at the same time as Gloria floated into the safety above the Reichenbach Lake. Sam sternly told Sherlock and John to stay back and ran to join Dean. </p><p>The skeletons surged forward, some of them with knives or similar sharp objects, and one with a broken gun. Dean cut into one of them with the scythe, effectively snapping its collar bone and throwing it on the sand, smashing its skull with the sole of his boot. </p><p>Sherlock frantically tried to come up with a plan. Then John pushed him on the ground, swinging his shovel and in one swift <em>thump </em>he knocked another skeleton’s head off like baseball. </p><p>“We’re surrounded!” he yelled at the Winchesters, tripping the remains of the bone structure that kept following them, helping Sherlock back up. </p><p>“Fucking amazing, this day,” Dean cursed, he and his brother retreating. They each took down at least three of the dead, and Sherlock marvelled at how many idiots Gloria lured in, ignoring the possibility they were in the same category now. “Backs to each other! Don’t let them sneak up on you.”</p><p>They formed a tight circle, surveying the army of the dead that kept on coming. And then, Sherlock saw it. The low tide revealed a structure shallowly buried under the lake’s surface that resembled a long pier leading all the way to the waterfall. He saw its outline, not too far from where they were standing now. He would just have to make a run for it. There had to be something in there. Gloria kept looking there, so logically James told her he would be arriving from that direction, though he never did. He opened the journal again, getting a glare from Dean, but he kept on listing until he found relevant information. </p><p>“Alright, I know what to do,” he announced as John gave a kick to another resurrected skeleton. Its bones trousled and fell into a neat pile of dust. The incantation proved to be quite handy. </p><p>“Well, don’t keep us hanging,” Dean said, cutting into another summoned water tentacle that wiggled to them. Once the enchanted scythe and water made contact, the liquid evaporated. “Damn, I’m keeping this.”</p><p>“Be my guest,” Sherlock said, tucking the journal in his backpack and handing it to John. He ignored his quizzical look and continued. “We’ll have to split up. One group should go and fetch the boat so we can get away quickly in case the other doesn’t succeed.”</p><p>“I’m coming with you,” John said, rearranging the backpack on his shoulders. </p><p>Sherlock shook his head, even though he did want John with him. He wanted to make sure he would be alright - as John intended in return, he assumed. “No, we have better chances if we mix up. Dean and Sam are better at fighting aggressive forms of the supernatural. Sam, you’ll go with John - and get the guns. Dean, you’re coming with me.”</p><p>Dean charged at two skeletons now, the scythe nicely breaking them both up. “Fine with me.”</p><p>“We can’t go through the forest,” Sam said, “we don’t know where they may jump at us from.”</p><p>“The island is small, it’ll be quicker to take the beach route anyway,” John nodded, and he put a firm hand on Sherlock’s back. “Are you sure your plan will work?”</p><p>No, he wasn’t, but what was there to lose? “Yes, just keep the journal safe. Now go and get the boat!”</p><p>Sam and John broke through the skeleton offensive with ease, their shovels making it a quick job to scatter wet bones across the whole beach. Sherlock only now realised he didn’t have any tool to defend himself with, safe for Dean and the scythe. He didn’t want to risk losing the journal or damaging it in case he fell into the lake; he thought it better to leave it with John. </p><p>“Right, what now, Mr Ghostbuster?” Dean said and Sherlock walked to the left. Gloria kept on summoning her victims, apparently oblivious to them moving. Instead, she fixated on sending wave after wave of the undead after Sam and John.</p><p>“There’s a bridge or pier under the water, just a few centimeters,” Sherlock explained, ducking from another pile of bones Dean knocked to the ground and stabbed with the garden tool. “I’m guessing it leads to the waterfalls.”</p><p>“And then what?”</p><p>“We run through the waterfalls.”</p><p>“Because that never killed anybody…”</p><p>“No, there’s supposedly a cave behind it,” Sherlock said, looking for a sign where the bridge started. “Didn’t you notice how she kept staring in this direction? She knew he was coming but he never did. Maybe the cave will reveal why?”</p><p>“Let’s get to it, I think she’s onto us,” Dean said, picking up his pace. Gloria did notice them moving towards the water, and she didn’t miss the opportunity to raise a wave in an attempt to wash them off shore and drown them. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm, guiding him, keeping him steady, his other hand busy with cutting through the water as best it could.</p><p>The bridge was there, barely three centimeters under the surface. Dean and Sherlock began running as fast as possible and once they crossed the border of the island, the dark atmosphere cleared out and changed into the sunny Reichenbach Falls weather; even birds chirped in the background. </p><p>Gloria’s screech chased after them. Sherlock risked a look over his shoulder, seeing the ghost charge at them, splattering water in its wake. He held onto Dean’s forearm and maintained his pace, both of them aiming for long strides that were easier for Sherlock rather than Dean, but he didn’t slow down. </p><p>“She could just use that wave again, we’re pretty exposed to defend ourselves,” Dean breathed, his feet splashing water everywhere. They were halfway on the bridge, approaching a turn leading deeper into a canyon where the waterfall poured into the Reichenbach Lake. </p><p>Sherlock pushed himself to the brim of his strength; running through water was excessive. “She definitely would’ve done it already. I think her power’s limited to the island.”</p><p>“That didn’t stop her from going after us.”</p><p>“That’s a specialty of mine, usually,” Sherlock said cheekily. Dean nodded, a smile playing at his lips. </p><p>Once they rounded a rock formation that shielded the waterfall from the island, Gloria became even more tetchy, gaining speed. Dean and Sherlock ran across the flooded bridge, breaths wild ad heaving. </p><p>The foamy sound of falling water was growing all the more deafening as they darted nearer. There was no way to tell if there was an actual cave behind the flowing curtain of pearl-white waterfall, but it was too late to devise another escape route. The journal didn’t lie to him thus far, although the presence of the cave was a mere speculation. </p><p>Sherlock narrowed his focus and bravery into running in a straight line. Dean called his name, but he just gripped his forearm and dragged him through the cold veil, the force of gravity and pressure of water suddenly pulling them down and into a lagoon, knees deep. </p><p>Through the sound of water crashing against the surrounding rocks, Gloria’s screeches momentarily faded. Dean and Sherlock scrambled to their feet, wet as dogs. To their surprise, the cave was enormous and illuminated, but the light had no source. Dean helped Sherlock up on a dampened rocky platform, careful not to slip on the algae that had grown there. </p><p>“Where the fuck are we?” Dean said rhetorically, wiping his brow. “This day, I swear…”</p><p>“Quick, let’s find something that may help us solve this,” Sherlock said as he set out to inspect the cave. </p><p>They didn’t have to go looking far. </p><p>In the middle of the cave were two dead bodies, or rather what was left of them, arranged in weird shapes, indicating that both people died during a struggle of sorts. Sherlock knelt down and examined the scene; the skeletons were still clothed in shirts and trousers, but their shoes were missing. </p><p>Dean took the lead and shoved the upper skeleton aside with the scythe, telling Sherlock one could never be sure what was alive and what was not. When Dean’s post-mortem stabbing proved that the bones would indeed not resurrect, they searched the clothes. </p><p>“Have you seen Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride? It’s a stop-motion movie I think,” Dean said, tone relaxed as he looked into his skeleton’s pockets. </p><p>“No, why?”</p><p>“Dunno, all these fuckers outside just reminded me of it,” Dean shrugged. “There was this song, <em>Remains of the Day</em>, which revealed what happened to the Bride. Sad but upbeat.”</p><p>“How joyful,” Sherlock said, unsure of how to respond. Neither of them found anything incriminating on the dead remains, so they snooped around in the steady mysterious light of the cave.</p><p>
  <em>Hey! Give me a listen you corpses of cheer</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At least those of you who still got an ear</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'll tell you a story that'll make a skeleton cry</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of our own jubiliciously lovely corpse bride!</em>
</p><p>Sherlock didn’t have time to gift Dean’s singing with his typical roll of his eyes, because Gloria had finally caught up with the two, dividing the veil of falling water as though she were opening up a curtain and she floated inside. </p><p>“Jesus, do you <em>ever </em>fuck off?” Dean groaned, and Sherlock found himself sympathising with the man’s frustration. They’ve been on the island for about an hour maximum, this was <em>tedious</em>. He was aware he angered the ghost, but how were they supposed to free her from her miserable state of being when she was at their heels even outside her territory?</p><p><em>“You took James away from me!”</em> Gloria screamed, the ghost of her long hair flying in all directions as though she were electrocuted. The darkness didn’t follow her here though, so at least they had good visibility of her upcoming murder spree. </p><p>She enchanted a rock the size of basketball and threw it at Dean, who ducked behind a wall of stalactites that were thick enough not to crumble under the sheer force of Gloria’s wrath. </p><p>Sherlock regretted not having the journal with him now, but he had to think on his feet. The two separate skeletons could’ve belonged to anybody, not just James and the other unknown person. But there was simply nothing to latch on, nothing to identify them, though the chances were there. </p><p>“Sherlock!”</p><p>Dean’s shout snapped him back to present, but it was too late. A numbed pain nicked him in the ribs and he stumbled backwards, falling over the edge and down into a small pond full of icy water. </p><p>It took him a moment to realise what had happened, his hand automatically rubbing at the side of his ribs. It didn’t feel like he broke them, but it hurt as hell. Gloria must’ve thrown a stone at him, or at least a fragment of it.</p><p>Sherlock sank to the bottom, his lungs burning. The pain in his chest was ebbing and flowing, his blood was screaming for oxygen, but he couldn’t force himself to swim up just yet. He felt the baseball cap loosen and float away from him, but he didn’t care. He hit the bottom of the cave’s pond, his body lying horizontally along it. His vision went blurry, bubbles escaping from his nose and mouth, when he noticed a faint glimmer of a silver ring to his right. He reached out for him, cold water slowing his motion down lazily as he took a hold of the item absentmindedly, primal senses getting a hold of his adrenaline, forcing him to take off the wet bottom with a push of his legs. </p><p>A pair of strong arms heaved him out and behind a safe cover. </p><p>“Are you alright?” Dean looked him over. Sherlock nodded despite the quelching unease in his chest and showed him the ring. His wet clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.</p><p>“She has a ring on a chain around her neck,” Sherlock said, sucking in a breath. “They may be connected.” </p><p>“So I have to get near her and snatch it like some cheap crow?” </p><p>“If you put it like that…”</p><p>Dean sighed. “If I didn’t trust my instincts I would say you’re trying to set me up. Such is the price for doing this job right.”</p><p>They both flinched when another rock bounced off their cover. </p><p>“It would be nice to get some advantage in this,” Dean murmured, peaking over the rock that shielded them. “We need a distraction so I can sneak up on her. Unfortunately my salt has dissolved ‘cause reasons.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded, coughing as he straightened himself, getting on his knees. The area which got hit pulsed dully, and his breath hitched. “Leave that to me. She’s easily distressed, I’ll try to see what it takes for her to speak. Just be fast so she doesn’t squash me.”</p><p>“Alright,” Dean patted him. “God, I never would’ve thought I’d end up in a cave in some cursed, forgotten Oregon town fighting a ghost with a posh Brit.”</p><p>“That makes two of us,” Sherlock smiled a little ruefully. Dean helped him up and they parted ways as Sherlock left the temporary safe spot. </p><p>Standing up, his pained ribs weren’t much of a bother, thanks to the adrenaline. Sherlock slicked wet curls from his forehead so he could see better in the cave light, eyes searching for Gloria. At last he spotted her near the pile of bones he and Dean so unceremoniously searched minutes prior. </p><p>She hovered centimeters above, her frame just barely trembling and twitching. “James?” her whisper almost got lost in the static sound of water breaking against slick rocks outside. Sherlock wondered if she recognised her fiancé based on the clothes or some different clue he missed in a hurry. </p><p>He clutched the golden ring firmer and took a brave step towards her. “I know what happened to James.” A lie. He had an incomplete theory.</p><p>If Gloria’s neck wasn’t just a projection of ectoplasm, it would’ve snapped with the speed she turned to glare at Sherlock. Her sorrowful expression smoothed into that of fury. Sherlock acted quick, taking his chance - and showed her the ring. </p><p>“Where did you… get my ring?” she said, puzzled. Her own fingers shot up to her neck chain and held it. </p><p>“Your…?” It was Sherlock’s turn to be puzzled. Dammit, he didn’t have time to take a proper look at it! He frowned and noticed that the ring was of smaller size, though it had no precious stone embedded in it; it was merely a band. “But why would he…?”</p><p>“We exchanged rings before James was taken away,” Gloria said, still shocked. “That way we were both sure he was coming back home!”</p><p>“But he couldn’t have been murdered because of the ring,” Sherlock thought out loud. He didn’t mention that the metal was some cheaper alloy. “He was unjustly convicted of a crime, taken away, and yet he still managed to ensure you knew he was coming back… Your hatred of sailors indicates someone close must’ve betrayed him, and you knew it before you died.”</p><p>Gloria’s form twitched. Her eyes darkened. “James trusted him and so did I, but neither of them came back. They argued before James was taken, but in the end it didn’t matter.”</p><p>“Who was this traitor?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. Gloria ignored him and hypnothically watched the ring in Sherlock’s palm. He tried a different approach. “Can I have a look at your ring?”</p><p>“No.” She backed away minutely, glaring holes into him. Sherlock noticed Dean creeping up on her, his steps careful and calculated, scythe ready. </p><p>“You have James’ ring,” he explained, buying Dean time, “maybe putting them close to each other will trigger a reaction.”</p><p>
  <em>“No.”</em>
</p><p>At that moment, Dean had enough, and since he was close enough, he artisantly swung the scythe around the chain, tearing it apart. He caught the ring with ease and swiftly paced to Sherlock before the ghost realised what had happened. </p><p>Sherlock took the ring from him and placed it atop Gloria’s just as she rose in the air, ready to start round two of her havoc. But the moment the rings touched, the static in the air stilled, a wheezing sound capturing their attention. </p><p>Of the skeletons lying nearby, one of them was being encircled by currents of breeze. Dean cursed and lifted the scythe, but Sherlock lowered it with his hand, shaking his head. </p><p>“It may be a trick of hers!” Dean hissed, glaring at the younger boy. </p><p>“It isn’t! If you looked at her, you would see she’s just as flabbergasted as us!”</p><p>The skeleton started gaining texture, muscles and skin, until it was able to slowly, delicately sit up. The man’s figure was also transparent, and he stared at them in bewilderment. </p><p>“Who…? Where…?” his raspy voice said, and he looked at his hand in wonder, turning them over to see that he really was translucent. </p><p>“James?”</p><p>“Gloria?”</p><p>“Dean?” the Winchester joined in quietly, getting a chuckle out of Sherlock.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” James asked his fiancée who floated up to him, ignoring the living. Their hands connected, ectoplasma softly shining under their touch. “I… I was going back!”</p><p>“I know, James. I know, I always waited for you,” Gloria said soothingly. “Hudson said he would go watch for you once you signalled but… Neither of you made it!”</p><p>“Hudson?” James said, if a little dazed. His gaze fell upon the damp remains of his (presumably) murderer. Sherlock was a bit taken aback at first, but he quickly realised they meant someone completely different, with no connection to Mrs Hudson. “He killed me.”</p><p>Gloria sniffed and draped herself over her fiancé’s neck. </p><p>“But why?” asked Sherlock, brows furrowing. A droplet of sweat tickled at his temple as it rolled down.</p><p>James’s eyes widened, but he talked. He hugged Gloria closer to his chest to ease her distress. “I should’ve known sooner. Hudson was my friend ever since we were born. We both took on sailing with the Spaniards in our youth after our parents died, but the trade was dishonest and we sold arms to aid wars escalate into open conflict. I didn’t mind it because I stayed on the vessel, only handling the items, and my family was long gone to be ashamed of my ways. But then I found myself falling in love with a girl from Virginia and I had no desire to continue. </p><p>“I confessed this to Hudson, because he was like a brother to me. He supported both of us and helped me find a way out of the contract, although our employer and the state put a bounty on me and Gloria’s family threatened to strip her of her first born right as an heiress if she married scum like me.</p><p>“We fled to Oregon, avoiding frequented roads and bigger towns. Gloria took her mother’s jewelry and we eloped, hoping to start a new life where none of us knew a soul. I built a small cottage on an island not too far from this waterfall where we could be together in peace. We lived there for eight months until one night our local sheriff knocked on our door with his fellow men to take me in handcuffs. </p><p>“I changed my name from James Armitage to James Trevor, but someone pointed them in my direction and they jailed me and accused me of stealing and murdering a local businessman. Of course, I didn’t do it, and before they dragged me away I promised my darling Gloria I would come back. I gave her my ring which Hudson helped me acquire for our wedding and she gave me hers, an heirloom after her grandmother which would remind me of her, and I hid it well. It’s a simple ring; her grandmother wasn’t one for fancy jewelry.</p><p>“It pained me to leave Gloria alone in the cottage, so I asked Hudson to keep her company when he visited me before they put me in a carriage meant for New York. He promised he would keep her safe until I made it back, and I eventually managed to get out of the law’s unjust grip and went back to Oregon, our new home. </p><p>“I told Gloria I would come from the waterfall and signal her with a lantern that it was me. It was a new moon when I arrived back to the Falls and a fog set over the town like a blanket. I was careful not to fall into the river and when I came to the edge of the waterfall, I put my lantern down. I took my shoes off and set down, climbing the rocks carefully as I did many times before. </p><p>“Once down, I saw another lantern approaching me on the bridge that I repaired the previous year. I thought it was my beloved and I called out to her, only to realise it was Hudson who came to meet me halfway. I asked whether Gloria was ill, feeling dread seize me until he told me otherwise. When I asked him what he wanted, he said that Gloria was ashamed of me and didn’t want to see me anymore. I knew it wasn’t the truth; after all Gloria had many opportunities to part with me and she didn’t consider it once. </p><p>“We started arguing, but I dismissed it for the most part since we fought many times over the years and we still stayed close. But then Hudson confessed he was in love with Gloria and that she deserved better, that he framed the murder and theft on me because he knew Gloria loved him, too. I told him it was nonsense, but then he got violent and attacked me. We wrestled into this cave and then he laid his hands on me, strangling me. It took all my strength I had to fight him off, but he wouldn’t stop and he managed to get his guilty hands on my neck again, and Gloria’s ring got lost somewhere around.</p><p>“I remember losing my vision as I reached for something to help me. I got hold of a stone and hit him in the head and his skull cracked. He fell on me and I didn’t have the power to push him off, and I felt my eyes shut.</p><p>“Oh, how I wanted to scream for Gloria, to let her know I was home! When I woke up next, I found myself constrained to this cave. I knew I was dead, but my fury had no effect and I couldn’t break out. For a long time, I couldn’t even have a form like this one. Until now.”</p><p>Sherlock didn’t realise he was holding his breath until James was done telling his story. </p><p>“That’s… Wow…” Dean said first in between Gloria’s sobs. “Fucking hell, dude. That would make for a good Hollywood blockbuster.” </p><p>“That sounds dangerous,” James said with a frown, hugging Gloria tighter. </p><p>“Yeah it can be, what with the horny, perverted bastards running the industry and whatnot,” Dean said, shrugging. He was oblivious to the odd looks he earned from the old-fashioned ghosts.</p><p>Then, Gloria straightened her back so that she could look into James’ pale eyes. “I knew about Hudson. Ever since you were taken, he tried to court me, but I ignored him. I always felt like he was jealous of you, and on the night when I saw your light I heard him talking to someone outside our home. He said that he’d scare you away, and if you wouldn’t go he would force you to. I confronted him and he locked me inside, threatening me with a pistol, but as I fell on the ground I hit my head badly. The next morning, his soldier friend came looking for him and found me, but by then I had become a ghost and I was grieving so hopelessly I sent him to his grave. It was all a plot against you! Hudson was never your friend, James.”</p><p>“But at last we found each other, my love,” James smiled at his fiancée, cupping her cheeks into his calloused hands, pressing their noses together. </p><p>“Well, I’m glad you two lovebirds are together, but we’ve got to figure out what to do with you,” Dean said, turning to Sherlock for a solution, eyebrows raised. </p><p>James and Gloria also turned to look at him expectantly, hopefully. Sherlock petted the two rings resting in his palm, thoughtful. <em>Why, thank you for not pressuring me at all</em>.</p><p>“I assume you both want to rest in peace?” </p><p>James grabbed Gloria’s hand and nodded. “Only we didn’t marry.”</p><p>“Hm. Dean, you don’t happen to be a certified priest, I take it?”</p><p>“I think my license expired last week but I have holy water on me somewhere,” Dean deadpanned and patted his jacket and shirt. </p><p>“Wait, are you serious?” Sherlock asked, huffing incredulously as Dean found a small flask filled to the brim with holy water.</p><p>“<em>Deadly</em> serious. To be honest, I was drunk that night and I have no idea how I passed that short online course. I don’t even know who bothered making it and certifying it. But my brother laughed his ass off, and I was less hungover than expected, so…”</p><p>“Would you be alright if he had the honour to pronounce you husband and wife? I would be your witness,” Sherlock said, wiping sweat off his forehead as he looked back to the betrothed pair. So much for civil marriage. </p><p>“Would you do that for us?” Gloria glowed, her smiling radiating like heat. Sherlock wondered how many years exactly it was since she was sincerely happy. </p><p>“Will we have to destroy the rings?” Sherlock whispered to Dean while James and Gloria stood up. He shrugged, opening his flask with holy water and sniffing it. </p><p>“Had to make sure it wasn’t alcohol,” he explained at Sherlock’s questioning frown. “What? It can come in handy. Sometimes you need additional courage.”</p><p>“I’ll try to remember it.”</p><p>“Good. Now, shall we get to it?”</p><p>Dean made it quick. James and Gloria held hands while he made a short speech consisting of awful one liners Sherlock was sure he stole from romantic comedies and his crude pop-culture humour, but the couple didn’t seem to mind. </p><p>In the end, Dean nudged Sherlock to hand them their rings, and although the boy doubted initially whether they’d be able to take them, they did put it on each other’s ring fingers without a hitch. Then Dean started chanting something in latin and the ghosts, gazing at one another besottedly, started fading away until eventually they disappeared before their very eyes, the rings clattering against the wet rocks. </p><p>“This was the tamest, cutest way to get rid of ghosts I ever did,” Dean said, chuckling, wiping a fake tear from his lashes. Sherlock bent to pick the rings up; they seemed to have faded in colour a little as well. </p><p>“Mind if I keep them?” he asked the Winchester who shook his head. </p><p>“Nah, it’s yours. We should get out of here, who knows what Sam and John are doing.”</p><p>They made it out shortly, Sherlock gasping for breath seeing as his bruised ribs still hurt if he dared to stretch his arms anywhere above his torso. Dean almost carried him on his back, but he refused to lose any more dignity than he already did. He also didn’t want to think of how his hair must have looked. </p><p>Warm sun beams caressed their wet faces as they walked back to the island on the bridge, both of them weary from the physical strain, especially Sherlock. Dean didn’t look that much worse for wear, if he were honest. How much could that man endure?</p><p>Midway there, Sam’s voice called them from their left. He and John approached them with the boat. Sam’s shirt was torn at the bottom hem and he had his sleeves rolled up, and John was flushed and similarly dishevelled, a mud stain splatter on his neck and cheek. </p><p>“Sammy! Had a good time?” Dean cheerfully gestured at them, an amused grin on his face. </p><p>“If you call a group of obnoxious skeletons that want to chop your head off a good time, then yes,” Sam replied dryly, but he also grinned at his brother, shaking his head. “Everything alright, Sherlock?”</p><p>Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, tipping his head to the side to bask in the sun before he got in the boat. He sat next to John. </p><p>“Jesus, what happened to you?” he asked, a concerned frown twisting his face. John raised his hand, but stopped midway and let it drop down. Pity, but Sherlock thought it a bit dangerous; he’d lean into any touch right now. He was more exhausted than after that pixie accident. “Seems like you got the worse deal of the package.”</p><p>Sherlock got to explaining their side of the adventure as Sam navigated the boat back to the main beach. He noticed how the dark atmosphere had lifted from the island, pine trees and willows growing more green and saturated as the distance grew. </p><p>“So they got their happy ending,” Sam concluded when Sherlock finished. He looked impressed. “Pretty romantic. But I’ve got to say you both look awful.”</p><p>“Oh my God, you noticed! It’s a new Dove cream for wrinkles, would you like some for that incoming bruise on your jaw?” Dean punched him in the arm and Sam laughed, his longer hair bouncing as his head fell back affectionately. </p><p>Sherlock suddenly jolted up and shook John by the shoulders. “John! Where’s the journal?”</p><p>“Right here,” he reached under the seat and extracted Sherlock’s backpack from there. Thankfully, the items were drier than the Sahara desert. “Don’t worry, I made sure it was safe.”</p><p>Sherlock slouched back, relieved. “Thanks, I knew I could count on you.”</p><p>John beamed at him the same way Gloria did back in the cave when Dean was about to marry her and James. Sherlock really liked that smile, it was genuine, and he found himself smiling back. He scooted closer absentmindedly, nudging John’s knee with his own, unawares that the Winchester brothers shared a well-knowing glance. </p><p>“Alright boys, we’re back to safety and sanity. What’s the time?” Sam asked once they bumped into the shore, their boat rocking before it stilled. </p><p>Sherlock fished his phone out of the pocket of his travel backpack and paused in horror. “It’s four in the afternoon!”</p><p>“What?” the other three shouted in unison, just as baffled. “How?”</p><p>“Perhaps the island distorted time while Gloria was still possessing it,” Sherlock said, finger taping his chin. </p><p>“Shit, what about Greg?” John said, a hint of stress in his voice. He found his own phone, only to see that he had no unanswered calls. “God, he didn’t call? What happened? Hey, Sally? Was Greg here?”</p><p>Sally Donovan, who stood by talking to Henry’s father, looked at the sorry sight of the four of them and frowned. She squinted suspiciously at Sam and Dean. “No, why? I thought you two went with him?”</p><p>“Nevermind, thanks,” John said, sighing. He shrugged apologetically at Sherlock. “We’ll have to take the bus to the Shack. I’ll try calling Greg, but he may not pick up if he got into tricking tourists to pay to see some ridiculous new monster he found in a dumpster behind the cinema while he went back.”</p><p>“<em>Or</em> we can give you lift,” Sam suggested, nodding to Dean. </p><p>“If they’re dried off, sure,” he said, walking to their car without looking back.</p><p>“Your own ass is still wet,” Sam remarked, rolling his eyes. Dean’s jeans were still mostly soaked, especially on his rear, which also left an unruly imprint on the boat’s wooden seat within. He motioned to John and Sherlock to join them. </p><p>“Yeah, but that’s <em>my </em>ass, Sammy,” Dean said, wiggling his hips, patting his right side softly. “There’s a difference.”</p><p>“Look, you don’t have to drive us, really,” John said hastily. He scratched his dried hair with a touch of embarrassment. “We don’t want to be a bother.”</p><p>“Nah, I’m just joking,” Dean said, winking. “Get in, Ghostbusters. Who knows, we may have spent here more than a couple hours on a stakeout if it weren’t for your help. We can finally go on our well-deserved vacation!”</p><p>Sherlock limped inside first, followed by John. Closing the impala doors closed, John asked, “Where are you going?”</p><p>“Florida, Disneyland,” Sam said, sighing. He toyed with the radio buttons until Dean slapped his fingers, fixing him a glare. Sam stuck his tongue out at him in retaliation, but Dean flipped him off. </p><p>“Yeah, turns out Mickey Mouse is a little bitch who needs exorcism. And Walt Disney too, for that matter,” Dean added, leaving John and Sherlock befuddled with raised eyebrows. </p><p>“You serious?” </p><p>“I’ll bring you a souvenir if you like, his glove or something. Sherlock already has the rings from this one, it’s only fair. We’re going back through Oregon when we’re done. We’ll be visiting our great aunt Em. Who knows, maybe there will be another ghost problem when we come back.”</p><p>“Don’t jinx it,” Sam said. “I want to go at least one day without ruining my shirts.”</p><p>And so they set off for the Shack under John’s navigation, Sherlock quietly slouching in the backseat, eyelids heavy. Who knew sorting out ghost problems was so exhausting? The pain in his ribs was only pulsing now, and easier to ignore when he took slow, deep breaths. John took the journal out to read in the meantime and Dean sang more of that weirdly catchy song from the movie he mentioned in the cave, Sherlock’s vision blurring. He barely registered leaning into John’s broad, inviting shoulder as his eyelids slid shut, content.</p><p>
  <em>Die, die we all pass away</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But don't wear a frown 'cause it's really okay</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And you might try and hide</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And you might try and pray</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But we all end up the remains of the day</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Soooo, there's that just one more chapter and we move onto another episode out of twenty! <br/>How did you like the resolution? Tbh, I'm sorry for James and Gloria, but they did get their happy ending, and Sherlock got the rings, and Dean got to reference Tim Burton :))<br/>We'll see more of the Winchester brothers in the future.<br/>Now we only need to see what happened with Irene and that racoon... </p><p>We'll see more on an update on the 15th!</p><p>I hope you all are doing fine and you're staying healthy &lt;3<br/>Comments are as always encouraged and hella appreciated! </p><p>Updated: 10.10. 2020<br/>Word counts: 5682<br/>My humble tumbrl: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee, who does our fanart: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thanks ahgain for reading, and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Gloria Scott V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is Jake, feels, and a hug</p><p>episode 2, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi people! We'e back for the last chapter of Gloria Scott, so at last: resolution!<br/>And we'll see how Sherlock is doing with his injury :)<br/>Also, as every time, thank you all for reading, leaving a comment, or kudo, it means a ton! &lt;3<br/>Specials go out to Bee and Dee, to whom I recently explained a new lil' development in the fic, heh</p><p>Into battle!</p><p>EDIT: there has been a small error where I wrote that John will be starting his second year of uni, that was wrong. It was supposed to be third year, I corrected that :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It turned out that hunting a master escape artist of a racoon was a tough job. Irene discovered that she had a newfound respect for exterminators, though she doubted she was any more merciful than the professionals. </p><p>Sometimes when she dived in under the creaky porch it seemed that the racoon simply vanished before its tiny paws betrayed its position anew. Irene had to crawl back and forth simply because it became claustrophobic rather quickly and she could take only so much dust at a time. </p><p>Now that she was out once again, done with describing a fairytale story she came up with to test how much bullshit the tourists believed, she asked Mrs Hudson how much money they made. </p><p>“Oh, about seven hundred dollars,” the woman said casually, putting on her heart-shaped shades as if she only told Irene that she was baking brownies. </p><p>“With every passing day, I understand Sherlock more and more,” Irene blinked, though she was rather delighted about the sum she had helped produce. The dirt under her nails will be worth it. </p><p>“Yes, your brother does seem to be accurate, doesn’t he? Still no signs of the racoon, dear?” Irene took a glass filled with icy lavender lemonade from Mrs Hudson and sipped the delicious nectar of life. How was everything the woman did so spectacular? And how come she had never tasted a better <em>purple</em> lemonade?</p><p>“The devil is good at hiding in small spaces, I have to admit,” Irene said, downing the rest of her lemonade. “Where’s Greg?”</p><p>“Nicking every penny from those French tourists that arrived at around noon, I think.”</p><p>“He speaks French?”</p><p>“Well, ‘speaks’. He’s French Canadian, I guess he ought to have some background with it. I think his mother was French, too. Still, it takes all his charisma to make them believe the exorcism lies. People have been given more common sense in Europe, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Interesting. Well, I’m going in, Mrs Hudson,” Irene said, putting the empty glass on a plate the upkeeper was holding up for her. </p><p>She crouched and used her elbows to push herself under. It was then that Mrs Hudson noticed a pair of young teenage boys taking photos of Irene’s butt, so she made it her point to walk up to them under the pretense of offering them fresh lemonade and ‘accidentally’ spilling it on their phones in the process. She profusely apologised and hurried inside to fetch some napkins, smirking. </p><p>In the meantime, Irene’s irritation was growing enormous. She slithered around the ground that accumulated filth over who knows how many years and to no avail. But she will never give up. Even if it meant she had to become Dr Doolittle and learn to speak to the animal in its indecipherable language. Plus, her phone was new. Who in their right state of mind wouldn’t go the extra mile to get it back?</p><p>At last, she spotted the cursed cretin creature in a far-away corner, sniffing at something incriminating. </p><p>Irene took her precious time for what it was worth. She had to stop deadbeat in her tracks on multiple tries that she longed to sneak up on the racoon, careful not to make any noise that would startle it. She managed to get to an arm’s length to the racoon, one more push of her legs surged her forward just enough to grab the racoon by its bushy striped tail. She decided against it, resisting the urge to yank the animal and shake the possessions out of its fur and paws. </p><p>Unfortunately, the universe was cross with Irene that day for some yet unknown divine reason, and when she put her knee forth to make further advancement, she kicked a deformed tin can, scaring the racoon out of its hide. Her reflexes were fast enough though, after all, to grab the sorry animal by its tail, but the unnerving thing proved to be that the mammal was surprisingly so strong that it dragged Irene with it.</p><p>It happened so fast Irene barely registered herself being taken further into the space under the Shack. Then, as though she were falling over an edge of some building, she toppled over and fell on a cold hard ground, facedown. </p><p>She rolled on her back with a grunt, her palm landing on her forehead to soothe it.<em> Bloody hell</em>, she thought. She should’ve asked for one-hundred percent of the money made today. With a jolt of realisation, she sat up, taking in the space where she had fallen.</p><p>Her eyes narrowed on the racoon who was sitting opposite of her, one paw raised halfway as if it hesitated to take another step, head tilted in curious contemplation. Its nose twitched again, and Irene cursed internally. Dammit and its cuteness! </p><p>“Did I hurt you?” the animal spoke suddenly. </p><p>Irene gasped, eyes wide and she holstered the air-freshener spray as the racoon waddled up to her. “What in the <em>bloodiest</em> of <em>fucks</em>? What are you?”</p><p>“Now that’s just rude,” the racoon said with a faint hint of irritation and hurt in its voice. Irene took the cap off the freshener and aimed it at the animal. “No! Wait, please! I want to explain this to you!”</p><p>“Then get started, <em>fluffy boy</em>,” Irene said, voice low in pretense of being deadly serious. She pointedly tapped the top of the freshener to urge the answers out of the strange racoon.</p><p>“Okay. Uh… Where to begin… Ah! Right, so. You see, I’m not a normal racoon. I can talk and I am able to form coherent and intelligent thoughts, unlike my family and some deer friends.”</p><p>“That’s relatable.”</p><p>“Right? Anyway, it was sort of oppressive to live in the forest like an animal - hey, quit chuckling - so I decided to move. Do you know how amazing your world is? I got <em>hooked </em>on television. The man who owns this place watches lots of good programmes (I peek through the windows) and man, Brooklyn Nine-Nine is my favourite so far!”</p><p>“Huh. You do have a similar voice to Jake Peralta,” Irene said with a raised eyebrow. Yes, the similarity to the actor’s voice was audible now that the animal pointed it out. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“I chose Jake,” the racoon said shyly, clasping his tiny hands together. “Obvious reasons. You know, forest animals don’t really use names.”</p><p>“Oh, of course. But why did you need to steal our things, Jake?” </p><p>“I didn’t want to steal it.” Jake sounded pained by the accusation. “Only borrow it. I’m just… SO curious about what you use daily… I dunno, I always take a look at it and then return it. I wouldn’t keep it! I swear!”</p><p>“Alright, no need to stress yourself out because of it now, I believe you,” Irene said, resigned. </p><p>“Oh. And you’re not even freaked out that I talk?” Jake asked quizzically. He tilted his tiny head to the side, ears twitching.</p><p>“Trust me, I witnessed more craziness in the past week than in this day,” Irene said truthfully, smiling at Jake. She put the air-freshener down and pulled her knees to her chest. “So, where exactly are we?”</p><p>Jake sat up straighter, puffing out his breastbone pridefully. “It’s a pocket universe!” At Irene’s confused look he continued, “Well, that’s how it smells. You know, animal perks. It is like a pocket filled with enough air to supply something that looks like a small room, but it’s in fact a whole another universe that attached itself to this house! Nifty.”</p><p>“And why is it that it’s only you in here?” </p><p>Jake’s head fell lower, his beetle eyes looking sad. “Others are scared of this place. I think they cannot process it the way I do.”</p><p>“Aw, you lonely little bugger,” Irene sighed sympathetically. “I understand why you would run off with the permit and phone. I won’t hold it against you.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yes,” Irene confirmed, prodding Jake closer to her proximity. “That is if you promise not to steal anymore. We can have a compromise, because I like you. You’re bloody adorable. I can sneak things you’re curious about down here whenever I’m able to, and in turn I can use this pocket universe as a hiding place when I need it.”</p><p>Jake thought about it, his snout breaking into something resembling a smile. “Sure! I’ll finally have some company! Do we shake hands now? I think that’s a custom you have.”</p><p>Irene laughed and shook Jake’s paw, careful not to squeeze him too hard. He was cute and likeable, a complete opposite of the rabies-infected animal she expected. She observed the pocket universe room in which Jake lived. It was depressingly bare of any furniture or trash or stolen items, which meant Jake was honest about not keeping anything. Little bugger deserved to own something. </p><p>“Oh, I can’t wait to tell Sherlock about you,” Irene mused, smiling to herself. She’ll have to keep an eye out for him, though - Sherlock could be a bit too fervent about his research of anything interesting.</p><p>Jake, on the other hand, did not seem to be as placated or curious as Irene presumed him to be. Quite the opposite - the fur on his tail stood up, and he pressed his body to the ground. He looked like a furry pancake, splayed like that. </p><p>“Uhm… Is he the tall guy?” Jake asked, his voice higher in pitch. Irene nodded, and his ears clapped shut over his skull. “Oh, well. I, uhm. He’s a little scary.”</p><p>Irene laughed, thinking of how Sherlock could come across as intimidating. He never fooled her, but she could see how his long, gangling limbs and and searching, intelligent gaze made people and Jake alike unsettled. “You don’t have to worry about my brother. He’s just a twat and a giant, pining idiot.”</p><p>“What does ‘pining’ mean?”</p><p>“It means that he likes his friend, and that friend likes him back, and neither of them act on it, but still desire each other a lot.”</p><p>“Is that the blond guy he talks to? Ah. Well, then it’s true they’re idiots. You can smell the hormones mixing. It makes me sneeze.”</p><p>“Too much information, but those are my words exactly, Jake. The blond’s called John, by the way. So really, you don’t have to be scared of Sherlock or him. True, Sherlock’s focus can be uncomfortable, but he’s alright. And John is tame like a golden retriever. I’ll be there when you introduce yourself.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Jake hesitated. He sat up again, yawning into his tiny paw. Aw, he even learnt human manners! “I’d like to stalk them more. I’m not the best at approaching people.”</p><p>“Neither is Sherlock,” Irene said, hoping to give the racoon reassurance. </p><p>“Cool-cool-cool-cool-cool. Well. I’d still like to stay in hiding if you don’t mind? I just want to reveal myself when I feel like it.”</p><p>“Sure! I won’t say a thing. I have no right to take that away from you. It can be our little secret.”</p><p>Jake gasped, did an excited circle, his body wiggling with energy. “I always wanted to have a secret with a friend!”</p><p>“That’s a deal, then. But wait, why did you take me here in the first place? Why reveal yourself to me?”</p><p>Jake waddled closer to her, resting his jaw on Irene’s knee. She lightly scratched him behind his ears and Jake purred blissfully. “I heard you tell your two other humans to tell the tourists the porch is haunted. I played along. It was fun! I hopped in here from time to time so you could get out. Sorry.”</p><p>“You actually made us lots of money,” Irene ruffled his fur. Jake <em>was </em>a sweetheart. All this grime on her? Definitely worth it. “That was smart. Greg would like your thinking. He’s the owner of the place.”</p><p>“Good to know.” They stayed like this for a while, Irene petting Jake who was obviously touch-starved. Just like Sherlock. Her brother was a cuddler by heart, and her memories of when they were kids and Sherlock got scared and found comfort in hugging Irene proved that. Funny how similar animals and people were on many merits. Watching Jake, she hummed, seeing that he liked his scalped massaged like Sherlock, too. But then again, almost everyone liked scalp massages. </p><p>“Can I have my phone now?” Irene turned to Jake, who watched her with his big, hypnotizing beetle eyes. </p><p>“Oh! Of course!” He scuttled over to the furthest corner and handed her the phone, unharmed and with no additional scratch luckily for him. </p><p>“You know what? Keep the permit,” she said when he held it out for her afterwards. She stood up, dusting off her yoga pants. “I’m sure no one will miss it, not even Greg. Hang it up or something. God knows you need decorations.”</p><p>“You mean that? You’re so awesome…. uh, what’s your name?”</p><p>“Irene,” she offered, winking. “I’ll visit you later, Jake. It’s been a pleasure. Where do I climb out again?”</p><p>Once she crawled back through the puncture under the porch, she got a helping hand from Greg. </p><p>“Any luck?”</p><p>“Sorry,” she shook her head, trying to mask the amused grin that tugged at her mouth. “I saw the racoon chew at your permit, tearing it into pieces. Then it ran out from the side into the forest.”</p><p>“Great,” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He let out a frustrated sigh. “I can go and get a new one now, fan-fucking-tastic! Did you at least get your phone?”</p><p>Irene suppressed a giggle and showed him the little mechanical box. “I still want to get paid for having to wiggle in all that dirt.”</p><p>“Yeah, no problem. You deserve it for the effort,” Greg agreed and led her inside the Shack when a drifting sound caught their attention. They swirled around to see a car pull up, Sherlock and John getting out, dishevelled as though they ran a marathon. John bid the passengers in the car a goodbye, Sherlock tipped his head, and their lift took off into the sunset. </p><p>“What happened to you?” Irene called after them, the initial surprise wearing off. It dawned on her they were actually meant to be fishing with Greg on the lake, only they got stuck in separate places for <em>hours</em>. They were quite roughened up. “Seems like you’ve been occupied.”</p><p>Sherlock glared at her for that double-edged remark, but John was too busy reassuring Greg (who facepalmed himself so hard for forgetting his nephew it made a few lingering tourists turn around in alarm) that it was alright, explaining that they were helping catch a local their dog who ran into the forest nearby. Irene knew instantly that it was a good-intentional lie. </p><p>“So what happened for real?” she asked Sherlock as they ascended the stairs to the attic. Greg kept swearing to himself for being a ‘forgetful dickhead’ while John laughed his arse off. “You look awful.”</p><p>“You’re the one to speak,” Sherlock observed her head to toes, then taking the last two steps in a long stride, although with difficulty. His inhales sounded wheezy. “Wait for John, it’s his turn to be storytelling.”</p><p>Irene frowned. She took in what Sherlock’s body language and his state of clothes offered, and his hair, which was a frizzy mess. She wasn’t as good at deeper observations like her brother, but she wasn’t completely oblivious or stupid. “Did something happen between the two of you?”</p><p>“No.” The word could cut, she was sure of it when he clipped it like that. He grabbed his towel, pyjamas, and comb, shuffling back downstairs by a level to have a shower. This wasn’t the time to make witty comments. </p><p>“Sherlock, I mean it,” Irene pressed as he stepped out of their room. “Is everything alright? Sorry if I offended you, but I had a long day myself.”</p><p>Sherlock halted on the first step, glancing over his bony shoulder, which looked stiff in this posture and a bit awkward. The crinkles around his eyes softened. “Sorry,” he sniffed. “Just tired. We’ll explain later.”</p><p>She let him go. </p><p>~</p><p>John treaded up the stairs two at a time. He succeeded in lying to Greg about their true whereabouts and activity, though he didn’t lie when he said they lost track of time. And from what Greg told him, they were busy at the Shack as well, having Irene chase a racoon under the porch for half a day, apparently. </p><p>He was about to go up to the attic room to ask her about it when a pained gasp caught his attention in the hallway, coming from the bathroom. Its doors left a slit open, but he didn’t dare peek in like that. He raised his hand to knock when he heard Sherlock curse quietly under his breath. </p><p>“Sherlock? You alright?”</p><p>Silence. John’s brows furrowed as he repeated the question, but no answer came. Did Sherlock seriously think that pretending he wasn’t there would fool John? </p><p>“Sherlock, I know you’re there. May I come in?”</p><p>“I’m alright,” Sherlock said, his deep voice raspy. He cleared his throat to make it go away. “No need to come in.”</p><p>“Okay,” John said, sighing. He wasn’t convinced but what could he do? He won’t intrude on Sherlock’s privacy, even though a gut feeling told him that something was off. Ever since he and Sam picked Dean and Sherlock up near the flooded bridge. His movements seemed too calculated, too controlled. But maybe he was overthinking it. <em>Really</em> overthinking it - he probably spent more time looking at Sherlock than it was healthy or necessary. Shit. Was that bad? Sherlock was aesthetically gorgeous, it was hard to miss it, but - <em>okay, Watson, hold your horses</em>. He cleared his throat as well. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>John clenched and unclenched his fist, remembering what he wanted to do. Ah, talk to Irene. He didn’t cross a meter before a clatter of things falling in the bathroom made his instinct dash into the room like the speed of light without thinking. He realised his intrusion as soon as he stepped over the threshold, but thankfully Sherlock was fully clothed, save for his unbuttoned shirt. Bottles of shampoo and hair products from the cabinet had fallen on the tiled floor from above the sink. </p><p>“Sorry!” John put his hands up defensively as Sherlock stared at him alarmingly from the mirror. “I heard these fall and thought <em>you </em>fell. Didn’t mean to -”</p><p>His breath caught somewhere in his throat at the sight of Sherlock’s bruised ribs. The boy made a half-assed effort to cover it with his crumpled shirt, but John rolled his eyes as he went into full caretaker mode. </p><p>“Let me see it, you dork,” he said, walking up to Sherlock, who sighed and let his head hang down, semi-dried puffy curls still sticking to the nape of his neck. </p><p>Sherlock, sensing he wouldn’t get away with this, sat down on the edge of the bathtub and let John step into his personal space. He sucked in a breath when John’s fingertips brushed his reddened side, so John made a mental note to keep the touch light and gentle, ignoring the rush of blood he felt in his veins. <em>Keep it medical</em>.</p><p>“Take a deep breath for me?” he said, watching Sherlock’s rib cage expand and deflate. Nothing seemed particularly out of place. “On a scale of one to ten, how much does it hurt?”</p><p>“Four.” John raised an eyebrow. “Five,” Sherlock admitted, averting his gaze to the ceiling. “Really, Dr Watson, it’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”</p><p>“Why ‘Doctor’? I’m still a student,” John said, poking Sherlock’s other side of his rib cage. </p><p>“Please, it’s obvious you go to medical school even without Mrs Hudson blurting it out at dinner,” Sherlock smirked, supporting his weight by placing elbows on his knees and leaning on them. </p><p>John crossed his arms and hummed. “How so?”</p><p>“The textbooks you packed and read behind the cashier’s desk when Kate’s on her break or has a day off,” Sherlock said, firing words off eagerly. “Plus, you leave your phone open everywhere with medical articles and journals always on screen.”</p><p>“You read through my phone?” John asked, amused. He felt his lips quirk up in a crooked smile. </p><p>Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his pale hand, though his cheeks caught a bit of a pinkish colour. Ha. “Don’t flatter yourself, Irene is more likely to do so, if she hadn’t already. And besides, you don’t have only first and second-year textbooks, you have third and fourth year as well. They’re also worn out - it passed by two other people or just one person who held onto them for two years. You can’t really afford new prints, so you make do with second-hand. Granted, Toronto is expensive, so that’s understandable, and it gives you the same quality of education, so what would be the problem? You <em>do </em>make it easy. And then… <em>this</em>. You basically broke the doors down once you thought I’m in danger. Caretaker instinct. You probably took care of sick family members since you were a child, which continues till today. The question is - is it because you feel like you <em>want </em>to or feel like you <em>have </em>to, or <em>others </em>tell you that you have to, out of obligation?”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes widened as he said that, his mouth clapping shut with an audible <em>click</em> of his teeth. He hid his face in his hands, muttering an apology, pink stains flushing his refined, sharp cheekbones even more.</p><p>“Huh… I’ve never thought about that,” John said, scratching the back of his neck. It took a second before his brain caught up with what Sherlock said, but it was all true. And still a damn enigma to himself as well, that last part. “That’s pretty amazing.”</p><p>“You think so?” something in Sherlock’s eyes gleamed at that. He still looked apprehensive, though, not shaking off the feeling John may be mad at him. That told John in turn that Sherlock’s wit and genius weren’t alway appreciated. (How? Why not?)</p><p>“I mean, now that you said it, it’s pretty obvious. But no one else made it out unless I told them myself, so. Yes, I think so. I will be starting my third year this fall, but thinking about it, I don’t even remember where I got the latter books from. Nevermind that. And almost spot on on the caring part. I don’t mind talking about that part of my life but it’s a heavy topic. Not because of heartbreak associated with what you may think, but yeah. We may talk about it sometime later.”</p><p>“That’s… okay. I’m still sorry. I don’t always stop or recognise what may be offensive on the spot. It’s easier to say it all in the stream of consciousness.”</p><p>“Yeah, I can see your mind racing a mile an hour,” John squeezed Sherlock’s knee to show him it <em>was</em> okay. He was numb to any trauma he went through all those years, and if Sherlock knew something was there? Then he was spared the pain of reliving it one-hundred percent. Plus, knowing Sherlock (alright, only for about a week, but it felt like a lifetime or at least several years!), he could figure it out eventually on his own. That would be…. better. Preferable. “But… ha, despite being this genius, you can be a reckless idiot, you know?”</p><p>Sherlock frowned at him, visibly confused. </p><p>“You didn’t know it for sure that there would be a cave.” It wasn’t accusatory, just a statement of truth. John knew the answer, which was reinforced by Sherlock looking anywhere but at him. “Mhm.”</p><p>“The journal never lied to us,” Sherlock started, but John cut him off. </p><p>“It didn’t, but it wasn’t sure this time either, it just said there <em>may </em>be a cave. I understand your reasoning, Sherlock, you did a good job dividing us, just…. Do speak up about the risks, okay? Remember - just the three of us, or two if Irene isn’t there, against the rest of the world. Right? I know Dean was with you - and believe me those Winchesters can put up a fight - but if you ever decide to get into a dire situation…. Be sure I’m around. Please. I’m not going to be a doctor for nothing.”</p><p>Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, bobbing his head lightly to say he got the memo. John smiled at him, patting him on the back but he pulled him into a light hug that lasted a few seconds. </p><p>“Bastard,” he said, fondly, barely resisting the urge to pet his messy hair. At the sight of Sherlock being this dishevelled, his stomach fluttered. “I don’t want you to get hurt, is all. I’ll get you an ice pack and ibuprofen, that should help ease the pain. Fortunately it seems like you didn’t break anything, but if the pain stays I’ll take you to the local ward for a checkup.”</p><p>“Goodness help me if I succumb to the American healthcare system,” Sherlock groaned, getting a laugh out of John again. Why was it easier to laugh with Sherlock? Not that he complained.</p><p>“Quit moaning and get yourself sorted out,” John said, and his nervous system betrayed him - he suddenly found himself with a handful of curls in his palm, ruffling Sherlock’s hair carefully. He quickly snapped out of it, playing the cool card, hoping Sherlock would be too distracted to notice anything deeper behind it. He let go (regretfully) and walked out to the hallway. “And don’t use up all the warm water!”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the sharp edge wasn’t there. He locked the doors behind John, huffing as he stood up. John knew it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t keep Sherlock from getting harmed, but he couldn’t help himself but to curse at the thought of something worse happening to him. They knew each other for a short amount of time, and already he couldn’t picture life without Sherlock. God, he makes it sound like he was going to die today. Well, almost. But John had it close too. The scratch on his clavicle proved that.</p><p>He went to fetch Sherlock the ice and pills for easing the pain, handing them to the boy as they switched the bathroom. Later that night after dinner (tacos made by Mrs Hudson) up in the attic room, John and Sherlock told Irene the full story (“Were the guys hot?” she asked them suggestively, but both boys only rolled their eyes.) and she in turn told them how she crawled under the porch in order to catch a kleptomaniac racoon that ran off with Greg’s permit into the sunset. </p><p>Both siblings were exhausted when the clock showed midnight, Irene already tucked up in her bed and blankets. John and Sherlock talked in hushed tones - she threw a slipper at them ten minutes ago when they were louder than she deemed acceptable - filling in information to the journal. Sherlock asked John about the best technique when it came to rattling a skeleton into its second armageddon and John watched as Sherlock put his own thoughts down on the matter of Gloria Scott. His chicken scratch of a writing was distantly similar to that of the author of the journal, funnily enough, but John didn’t voice that thought. It was pointless, and his brain was tired to form coherent sentences. </p><p>It was a crazy, and a frankly unbelievable day, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. He enjoyed watching Sherlock and his thought processes, drawn by them to say the least. </p><p>At last when it was well past one o’clock, John decided it was time to go to sleep. Sherlock accompanied him as he stalked downstairs to the kitchen for a snack, Sherlock brushing his teeth in the meantime. He stopped by the door, asking one last time with a chocolate bar in his hand how Sherlock felt.</p><p>“Better now,” Sherlock said, looking up at him, half his face lit by the white-and-blue lighting above. His curls were fluffy now, after the shower and a thorough rinse. </p><p>“Good, you can get more ice on it tomorrow, er, today,” John corrected himself, bidding him a good night.</p><p>“John?”</p><p>“Yes?” He already crossed to the threshold of his room.</p><p>“Thank you. For everything, I mean,” he heard from behind him. He turned to Sherlock, who stood by awkwardly, scratching his neck. John gave in to the urge that surged through him and hugged Sherlock carefully on the healthy side of his thorax. Again. He could feel Sherlock’s heart racing through his t-shirt, but perhaps it was his own. He may be in bigger trouble than he had realised. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious.</p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p>John patted Sherlock on the back, winking at him cheekily. In the half-darkness of the hallway it was hard to say if the tall boy in front of him blushed, but the smile he cast John was unmistakable. </p><p>“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock yawned, and John watched him tread up the stairs, making sure he didn’t fall or trip. Sherlock looked over his shoulder briefly, not closing the attic doors.</p><p>“Goodnight, Sherlock.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So there goes episode 2. Next we will have ep3, with another case, and more pining! Also, a very *evil* entity.... But I've basically turned it into a meme, you'll see.<br/>With Jake, we will have a few Brooklyn 99 references coming along the way. I just thought 'hey, why not have a talking racoon? They're cute' and basically made him Irene's friend, becuase he's a sweetheart :3 I have big plans for him!<br/>Also, johnlock. It's coming. Posh boy needs medical attention? Say no more and John is there like the speed of light ;) soft idiots be *soft*</p><p>Next update on the 20th, sneak peek name of episode 3: 'A Study in Clues'</p><p>I hope you're all doing great!<br/>Feel free to comment, I always appreciate and cherish each and every one! &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 15.10. 2020<br/>Word count: 4876<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's tumblr (She does our fanart, plus gorgeous fanart of Homestuck!): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you for reading, and I wish you all a happy night/day wherever you are~<br/>Take care, everyone</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. A Study in Clues I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a secret door</p><p>episode 3, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi people! New episode is here, and with it a new mystery on its on way! <br/>A always, thank you for the support, I really appreciate it a lot, it makes my days brighter now that where I live we're having lockdown again &lt;3 We're almost past 250 hits, too, which is pretty amazing, really thank you all! &lt;3 cookies for everyone!<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, of whom Bee is currently preparing !!new fanart!! for episode 2, and Dee who read last minute notice adjustment for this chapter - Sherlock's little turmoil, you'll see</p><p>Thank you again, and into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The alleyway was dark and wet, the odour of grimy streets and sewage system long seeped into its every crevice and brick belonging to the block of flats that enclosed the space. The streetlight was faint but sharp behind the corner, the sounds of the city muffled by the aggressive torrential rain pouring over the landscape. </p><p>Night was in its wake and something malicious hung in the air; wicked even. Suspense could be cut with a knife, that’s how much of a trouble this has been. A click of heels rattled the staling air as the police officer’s shoes glimmered in the artificial light supplemented by the forensics team. </p><p>“I’ve no clue why they had to send you to track my tail all the time,” the gruffly man said, stuffing hands deep into his trenchcoat. It was matted by rain drops that latched onto the material so easily. “I have the crime scene under control! Moreover, my team has already begun the investigation and examined all available evidence, and this was obviously an accident!”</p><p>If the victim were alive, one way or another, with the help of a necromancer or without, it may have been able to support the statement or deny it. Unfortunately, the body has gone stone cold long before it was discovered, thus the possibility was annihilated beyond obvious. Now the body lay twisted on the ground into a form that roughly resembled a human pretzel. A crumpled note was imprisoned by the grip of his rigor mortis fingers, small enough to go unnoticed by the forensics team. Well, not really. They were just idiots. </p><p>“Accident, Wilson?” a ruff-ruff of a doberman said, transcribed in the subtitles of the show. He walked to the body and sniffed at it with its pointed snout. He turned his damp head at Wilson standing by. “Or is it…. Mur-dur?”</p><p>A dramatic close-up on Wilson yelling a “What!” was overlapped by the title screen <em>Dog-dective Doug</em>, and then the ads cut in. </p><p>“That dog is a genius,” Irene said admiringly, digging her fingers into a pocket of american <em>chips</em>. </p><p>Sherlock, sitting on the floor, back pressed into the couch, stifled a yawn and sighed instead. He didn’t remember how he ended up in the living room with his step-sister watching crap telly (and even worse: american crap telly!), but he supposed it didn’t matter now that half his brain cells were dead due to the stupid officer Wilson. The dog was somewhat bearable, he’d always had a soft spot for canines, but the writing was otherwise atrocious and predictable at <em>best</em>. </p><p>“If you tell me who the killer is, I’ll fold you into a pretzel too,” she warned him, eyes glued to the TV. She stuffed her face with paprika chips, chewing loudly and openly. </p><p>“As if I care,” Sherlock retorted, rolling his eyes. He watched an ad about dish soap claiming it removed one-hundred percent of bacterias, but how it got from cleaning dirty dishes to filthy hands, he didn’t register. He’ll return to London with his IQ diminished, he was sure of that. Bloody America. </p><p>“Oh, please,” Irene said, putting the bag of chips aside, cleaning her fingers on the sofa behind. “You’re itching to tell me how you know. How it is <em>obvious</em>. You’re jealous of the dog.”</p><p>“What? Jealous?”</p><p>“And you think it’s stupid, the whole show. Which it is, I won’t deny it. But it’s fiction, Sherlock. A silly one, but fiction nonetheless. It doesn’t have to be accurate or make sense.”</p><p>“You’re saying I’m jealous of a sentient doberman detective dog,” Sherlock stared at her incredulously. </p><p>Irene gave him a wicked smile, a playful yet crude spark in her deep blue eyes. “Would you be able to outwit a detective dog, Mr Know-It-All?”</p><p>“Honestly, Irene! He’s a dog, a bloody dog! Of course it’s easier to find certain clues better, he has heightened sense of smell like all canines do. Plus, he’s closer to the ground.” </p><p>“So you <em>are </em>jealous of his abilities.”</p><p>“To be fair, I have keen powers of observation myself that are above the average human’s,” Sherlock pointed out triumphantly. He pressed his knees closer to his chest. “While you were busy fraternizing with Toronto’s students, our ‘<em>peers’</em>, I have been honing my skills. And you know that.”</p><p>“Is this about your made-up profession again?” Irene sighed, massaging her temples. Sherlock has been musing about it since he was ten years old. He used to watch criminal shows all day long when Mummy allowed it and if he did his chores first. He had always liked to solve the impossible, and he did get better at it with age. But with his maturing came displeasure when the realisation that not everything was as good as it seemed had hit him. Thus began his journey to become the best crime-solver in the world. The world’s only <em>Consulting Detective</em>. He dedicated hours of his day to collecting and analysing samples of dirt, muck, ashes, and whatever else that caught his interest in his bedroom in London. That was partially why Mummy thought it a good idea to change scenery, to get him out on the sun a bit more. It has been unintentionally successful, thanks to the mystery journal, and also to John, in a way (Irene smirked every time she thought of it, but don’t tell Sherlock). </p><p>“I invented it,” Sherlock said smugly. Then he fixed his penetrating gaze at his step-sister, who leaned to the side, frowning. Then he started deducing. “For example, by the smell of your breath I can say that you’ve brushed your teeth with my toothpaste rather than yours, since you like it better, but you think I don’t notice - I do, though you were sneaky about it. By approximating my usage and adding yours, I can safely say that you don’t only use it for brushing your teeth, you also eat some of it. You did that as a child too, if you forgot. You also devoured that bag of chips without offering me some of it, even though I would refuse politely -” here, Irene snorted, “and you also consumed today’s breakfast with two extra helpings of Mrs Hudson’s quesadillas. This appetite usually means your period is about to start in approximately a week or ten days. Additionally, a pimple is forming on your chin. I wouldn’t advise doing anything about it, it’s one of those watery ones, you’d just irritate it. And lastly, you wearing leggings shows you didn’t shave your legs yet. Not that you’re ashamed, but you don’t want to deal with possible comments from the rest of the household, though you’ll do it tonight because Kate is working tomorrow and you want to debate what brand of women’s razors is the best for smooth skin.”</p><p>Irene’s face was blank, waiting for him to finish. Sherlock knew he was right, despite her adapted impassiveness. Her eyes widened for a second when he mentioned the toothpaste, but it was gone just as quickly. When he mentioned the pimple, her forehead wrinkled in a frown and she almost punched him in the arm, but refrained and otherwise she patiently waited until he was done. His hard work of observation was paying off. Finally!</p><p>And suddenly, a sweet sort of smile that reminded him of a feline spotting its prey spread on her face. His smile faltered a little and he braced himself for her pouncing on him as he already foresaw the brawl they’d have. (Nothing serious, just a typical fight siblings and step-siblings experienced, with added intellectual power bonus) </p><p>But Irene didn’t move a muscle, her smile unwavering, something behind her eyes calculating and venomous. </p><p>“Well, I’ve got to admit you can do a lot without having an extraordinary dog sense of smell,” she admitted, mouth pouting in an appreciative way. Her eyes narrowed on him dangerously and he swallowed. “I’m not even offended, to be frank. It’s nothing incriminating. But you’re not the only one who notices things.”</p><p>“Irene…” he trailed with a hint of edge to his voice, sitting on his knee folded under him. </p><p>“Oh, please,” she waved a hand. “This isn’t about John…. <em>yet</em>. I’ve got time for my plans regarding you two,” Sherlock glared at her in hopes of disintegrating her cells into separate atomic particles, “but no. I just meant that Mummy would be disappointed to learn you took up smoking, you know.”</p><p>Sherlock gaped at her. He was careful enough not to let it slip, always having chewing gum on him, smoking outside when no one was nearby. He nicked most of the cigarettes from Lestrade (he bought quality cigs, he ought to give him that) and he was confident no one besides him knew.</p><p>“<em>How…</em>”</p><p>Irene shot him a look. “You think I don’t wake up when you leave in the middle of the night? Plus, you open the window not to let the odour linger, and the windows are creaky.”</p><p>Sherlock buried his face in his hands, long fingers caressing his temples, curls falling over his forehead. “Fine,” he said. “This worked better in Toronto.”</p><p>Irene bit back the words that she knew even then. At first when he took up smoking a year prior, it was fairly easy to spot. He did get better at masking the smell, though. And so far he smoked strictly when he was stressed, so it wasn’t a full-blown addiction yet, not like what Lestrade had. </p><p><em>Dog-dective Doug</em> resumed, their attention snatched by the Doberman as he chased the culprit across the city during a storm. He came close to losing him a few times, he was even held at a gunpoint (he was saved by his feline companion Sheva) and as he pacified the bad guy and handed him to Wilson, John stormed in. </p><p>“Hey guys!” he said, a broom in one hand. He was a bit out of breath and looked at Sherlock, though he addressed both siblings. “I think you should look at something.”</p><p>John led them upstairs on the second level of the Shack to a narrow corridor just past Mrs Hudson’s private tool room that was locked most of the time. Sherlock tried picking the lock three times, but she caught him in the act each and every time. Even when it was late in the night and the Shack’s inhabitants were sleeping, she somehow appeared right beside him, scaring the living midnight out of him, telling him that she forgot something in there, standing guard until he retreated for real. Neither of them mentioned it. Lestrade shrugged when asked about it, and Sherlock gave up for the time being. Mrs Hudson’s omniscience was scary as it would get. </p><p>The corridor had a burnt-out lightbulb, so it was dark save for the natural light streaming in from a small rectangular window at the end of it. The walls were decorated with useless junk accumulated over the years; a dusty grandfather clock; a grimy framed painting of a half-person, half-llama; a potted plant that was watered last when Ramses II was still alive and breathing; and a handful of cobwebs. </p><p>On their left shy of the grandfather clock was a door slightly ajar. It was masked by the old wallpaper that covered it for so long and well that the impression wasn’t visible much. Only now were there cuts and tears where the door was pushed open around its edges and length. </p><p>“Mrs Hudson sent me to clean up the webs,” John explained, tapping the broom against the floor thoughtfully. “Said they always come back stubbornly, but anyway - the window was open and there was a draft which made something rattle, so I listened and discovered that there is a door right here. I tried my luck and looked…”</p><p>He kicked the wooden frame inside to reveal a room, completely black save for the minimum light from the hallway. John flicked a switch on, and thus they could see the room in its full glory - and stuffed with ragdolls of all sizes. </p><p>“Ew,” Irene croaked and shivered. “They’re so creepy.”</p><p>“I know, right?” John agreed, setting the broom to rest against the nearest wall. “Ever since I saw Chucky I find them scary.”</p><p>“I mean, I don’t mind horror movies but the concept of that one was just disturbing.”</p><p>“True. Have you seen Silent Hill?”</p><p>“That’s a classic.”</p><p>“You’re both lunatics,” Sherlock muttered, crouching to pick up a doll that reminded him of the Disney Princess Cinderella. He walked up to Irene, who had her back turned to him. He held the doll up, stifling a laugh and said, “Doesn’t this remind you of someone?”</p><p>The yell that left Irene’s lips was enough to rouse Lestrade from his office as he hurriedly took stairs three at a time, Mrs Hudson at his heels. </p><p>“What the hell is going on?” he bellowed, barging into the room. He stopped to assess what was in front of him and said, “Oh,” before narrowing his eyes at John, jerking his head in a motion that asked for an explanation.</p><p>“I found this while cleaning the cobwebs, so I called Sherlock and Irene to investigate with me,” the blond said, shrugging. He looked at Sherlock again as he laughed at the absurdity of the situation. “Didn’t expect to see an army of Chuckies.”</p><p>“Who screamed bloody murder?” Mrs Hudson asked, wiping her hands in her apron with palm trees. A concerned frown creased her artfully painted brows.</p><p>“Me, because my idiot of a brother has no shame!” Irene growled, snatched the doll from Sherlock and slapped his arm. He couldn’t stop giggling. John turned his back on them so that Irene wouldn’t see him on the verge of a fit of giggles. Mrs Hudson’s eyes twinkled, but Lestrade still looked mildly perturbed by the whole ordeal.</p><p>“Step-brother,” Sherlock corrected, dancing out of her reach, but Irene managed to whack him on the head with the impostor Cinderella doll. He leaned on a desk where a life sized ragdoll was seated, but it was merely a makeshift humanoid cluster of overstuffed and knitted pieces of fabric and wool sewn together. </p><p>“For someone who plans to be a consulting detective you are pretty childish, Sherlock,” Irene hit him one last time before putting the doll down. “What even <em>are </em>these?”</p><p>“Oh, uhm,” Lestrade began, gulping and glancing around. “This used to be a part of the Museum. Until people found it creepy and all, sending me letters they thought they were cursed.” He ignored the wide-eyed stare from John, who then gave Sherlock a look saying ‘<em>Journal?</em>’ and Sherlock pouted his lips and nodded lightly, ‘<em>Journal.</em>’. Then John winked at him mischievously, suppressing a smile as they both thought to what other shenanigans they were going to get into if the journal revealed something vital.</p><p> “Anyhow, I’ve got all sorts of dolls in here. Disney Princess vintage editions, some Marvel dolls from the early two-thousands, a couple actor dolls, too. Heh.” Lestrade walked by the dolls, pointing them out, then he turned to where Sherlock was standing. “And my favourite one, Nicolas Cage - ah, hell.”</p><p>Sherlock glanced at the literally ragged doll of used-to-be Nicolas Cage. He couldn’t say he was sorry. He found it creepy just as John and Irene did. And this wasn’t even Nicolas Cage, the doll. It just had his poster face stuck in an eternal strange smile glued on its face. </p><p>“Crap, he was my favourite,” Lestrade nudged the woolly knitted remains with his finger, immediately wiping it on his trousers. It was dusty. “Oh well, nothing lasts.”</p><p>“Why worry, Greg?” Mrs Hudson chimed in, being her usual happy self. She pinched his cheek and Lestrade drew away, scolding her that he wasn’t a kid, which she laughed off. “Listen, I haven’t had the chance to knit these past few months, nor to crochet. I could make a new doll!”</p><p>“I don’t think the material is reusable, Hudders.”</p><p>“Who said it had to be recycled?” she said dismissively. “Toss it out, poor bugger had enough, I’m sure. I have just the right amount of wool and rags at home to make a life-sized doll at home, Greg.”</p><p>“Are you sure you’d be able to make something as large?” Lestrade asked skeptically. </p><p>“I’ve done bigger,” Mrs. Hudson assured him. She put her arms on her hips as if to dare him to challenge her again. “Why do you think I’m taking my knitting needles with me everywhere?”</p><p>“What needles?” he said quizzically, looking at John, but he shook his head. </p><p>“Exactly. Tut-tut, I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen!”</p><p>With a wave of her hand she disappeared into the corridor, her heels clicking against the wooden floor until she got on the carpet. Lestrade huffed a tired sigh. He made the wise decision not to question her further.</p><p>“I’m curious what else that woman has up her sleeve,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he turned to the teens, shoulders slumping a bit. He didn’t get a pinch of sleep, the dark bags under his eyes told Sherlock as much. “Will you manage not to yell now? I was dozing in my office and then I hear Irene screaming her lungs out like we have a serial killer here with a chainsaw.”</p><p>“That would be interesting,” Sherlock murmured, for which Lestrade reprimanded him with a glare. He put his hands up defensively and left, grumbling something about ‘kids these days’. </p><p>Sherlock chuckled to himself, hands stuffed in pockets and turned to look at John, only to face the destroyed doll of Nicolas Cage, printed eyes staring into the depths of his soul. He yelped back, gasping and fists clenching in short lived self-defense. </p><p>Irene cried a victorious “Ha!” before launching the doll at him. It was forceful and he stumbled back fingers digging into the stale and hardened wool and knots. Nicolas Cage slumped down lazily, and Sherlock let him sink to the ground. </p><p>“I’ll fold you into a pretzel next time, Sherlock,” Irene warned him, looking at him pointedly, and she left. A shiver ran down his spine.</p><p>“Pretzel?” John repeated, eyes raised questioningly at the curly haired boy. He stood with his arms crossed next to a doll that looked like Will Smith. </p><p>“<em>Dog-dective Doug</em>,” Sherlock said distastefully. His huff of annoyance was interrupted by John’s laugh. The tingly laugh that made his stomach somersault and flutter. Damnit. Why was he so…. <em>Cute</em>?</p><p>“I remember that episode,” he said, looking into a faraway corner beyond the Shack, reminiscing. Sherlock took that as an opportunity to let his gaze roam free across John’s posture. He was wearing jeans today with a white tank top, and a plain yellow shirt over it. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms. “Hard to believe it, but it was one of the better episodes on the show.”</p><p>“Christ, Irene makes me watch it with her. It’s torture already as it is,” Sherlock  rubbed his forehead, snapping back to reality. A faint blush crept up his cheeks, and he contemplated ways to poison oneself harmlessly. That shouldn’t be hard to achieve….</p><p>“I can imagine. Hey, what was it that Irene said? That you want to be a consulting detective?”</p><p>Sherlock winced and grimaced. Shit, okay. He didn’t count on this bit of information sticking out to John. It’s not like he is a detective right now, even less consulting. There is nothing and no one to consult him <em>yet</em>. </p><p>“Uhm, well….”</p><p>“Or… Is it too personal to ask? Sorry, don’t wanna pry, just curious,” John fixed him an apologetic look, but under the lashes remained this hopeful puppy-eyed stare. It wasn’t intentional, it was very much just...there. Sod this. </p><p>“No, no. It’s fine. ‘Consulting Detective’ is a profession I invented for myself,” Sherlock said, half shrugging as if it didn’t matter. It very much did. <em>Keep calm</em>, he told himself. “I always liked crimes. Mummy let me watch courtrooms and similar forensics-oriented stuff, you know. It stuck. And then I realised most pop culture TV shows are overrated and idiotically inaccurate, for the most part. So, I want to do the job properly. I uhm, I practise deductions, sometimes. Like I deduced you being a med student, though you have to admit that was fairly easy even before Mrs Hudson put you on a pedestal on that dinner. Additionally, I started practising the Mind Palace technique we found in the journal - It’s interesting, it allows you to memorise information quickly with enough practice, which I can imagine will come in handy in the profession.”</p><p>“Huh,” John said, biting on his cheek. Sherlock mentally prepared for the berating or straight up dismissal. “Actually, that makes sense.” What? “I mean, you and the journal and,” here, John gestured wildly with his wrist in the air, “<em>everything</em> in Reichenbach Falls. Your stubbornness to solve the seemingly impossible. It’s impressive. I think that fits in with you.”</p><p>Sherlock blinked. John said it’s <em>impressive</em>. Every waking moment he spent in his proximity, the blond continued to astound him. A warm feeling spread in his chest, and he felt honoured to have John said it in such an admiring way. </p><p>“I - thanks?” Sherlock said, suddenly realising with a jolt he staled to answer for a couple seconds. God, that was awkward.</p><p>John’s eyes crinkled with joy and encouragement as he nodded in the direction of the door. “It makes sense you’d find <em>Dog-dective Doug</em> dreadful,” he said, flipping the switch off. The room went black. “You’re already smarter than half the people I know. Being forced to sit through such a lame installation must be killing you.”</p><p>“God, you’ve no idea, John,” he groaned as they thumped downstairs. </p><p>“I have one, in fact,” John said, a wicked smile on his face. He put an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, steering him towards the stairs and living room and through to the gift shop. That threw him off balance internally. Oh no, they were <em>close</em>. Part of his brain recalled the small intimate moment they shared two days ago after the Gloria Scott adventure. </p><p>Truth be told, he didn’t plan for neither John nor Irene to find out he sustained an injury. The last thing he needed was Mummy calling him and asking whether he was alright or fussing. But his plans were in shambles the moment those sodding shampoo bottles fell and John stormed in like a soldier about to save him from deadly danger. He was pretty flushed as soon as he realised that there existed a possibility of Sherlock being less than clothed - that much was obvious from the horrified look on John’s face, but then he saw the forming bruise and went into full doctor mode. </p><p>John was gentle in his approach, and Sherlock’s stomach fluttered at the memory. He never allowed people to get this close, but with John? He made an exception. Surprisingly, John then pulled him into a brief hug and even ruffled his curls. Affectionately, dare he say. Or maybe that was a mere figment of his imagination his internal desires put forward. After all, the bruise did hurt a lot. Then Sherlock got to his deduction mode, but the astounding thing was that John didn’t shun him for it, even though what Sherlock blurted out wasn’t exactly nice, he assumed. Not when it came to the family stuff. But despite that, John said it was <em>amazing</em>. He was full of surprises, this man. And then he left to sort himself out, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.</p><p>Thankfully, Irene had only smacked him over the head with a magazine once she learnt that he got hit in the ribs. John provided good care, and the ibuprofen pills helped to abate the throbbing pain, too, along with the ice pack. Now his bruise was looking better and healing nicely. </p><p>Later that night, he had stood in front of John, thanking him for the care. It was awkward. He didn’t know whether he should have said something else besides a plain ‘thank you’, embarrassedly standing in the hallway. However, John took mercy on him and gave him <em>another</em> hug. It was a light one, sure, but electrifying nonetheless. Sherlock found himself getting lost in his desire to be closer to John Watson with every passing moment, even though he was getting mixed signals that confused his otherwise precise brain. </p><p>Did he dream it or did he catch a whim of John…. feeling the same? Sherlock was confused, and he hated it. He had brushed it off before falling asleep that night; it was probably just his tired mind playing tricks on him. He was more prone to being emotionally vulnerable when exhausted. He had to control himself better, hoping never helped anybody.</p><p>But now as John threw an arm around his shoulder, pressing him closer to his own body? The hopes Sherlock filed away broke loose once more, and he had to work extra hard to contain them and stop from blushing at the touch. </p><p>He felt John’s warm palm lightly squeeze his shoulder, the thumb of his hand brushing the fabric up and down in soothing little circles. Sherlock caught up with reality and realised they were standing behind the cashier’s desk in the gift shop, Kate gone for her lunch break. John beamed at him, jerking his head at the unknown strangers in the room. </p><p>“How about you show off your skills of deduction for me?”</p><p>Oh, now this was something he definitely could do without pulling his hair out. John Watson was a blessing in disguise, <em>and </em>the end of him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, new episode is on the rise - I took some inspiration from the original GF episode 'Headhunters', but even though the moon is waxing right now, we have other entities to soon come out. Spoopy? In about two chapters when I bring you some proper nightmare fuel!<br/>Aaaaand, more pining with a side of confused Sherlock! He's screwed and head over tits, ha. And John? Sneaky, but not so sneaky, if you get me. *wink wink*</p><p>Next update on the 25th!</p><p>I hope you're all doing okay, and that you're getting enough sleep!<br/>Feel free to leave a comment, they brighten up these autumn days of mine like a Christmas tree!</p><p>Updated: 20.10. 2020<br/>Word count: 4274<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee who does our fanart: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night, wherever you are~<br/>Take care!</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. A Study in Clues II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is mur-dur</p><p>episode 3, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! I'm back with chapter 2 of 'A Study in Clues', and another case on the way! And of course, more pining as well ;)<br/>Thank you everyone for reading, comments, kudos, everything! We are over 270 hits like whoa!<br/>One day I'll bake those cookies for real and mail you some &lt;3<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, I still have to get them to taste popcorn dipped in chilli sauce<br/>Enjoy the chapter~</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The clock was ticking, thin handles showing precise time with rhythm: 11:30 pm. The Shack was quiet, and the occasional snoring coming from Greg’s bedroom was muffled by the telly in the living room and John’s careful footsteps. </p><p>He passed the kitchen on his way to turn it off only to come back to get a glass of milk. He didn’t bother turning the lights on, he could navigate the house blindfolded by now. He closed the fridge, hearing the gums suction back into the frame. </p><p>John leaned on his hip resting against the sink. He drank the milk with long, thirsty gulps. Ah, that was better. He washed the glass and left it on the counter, then padded towards the hall.</p><p>He jumped back with a gasp when someone flicked the lights on - Mrs Hudson.</p><p>“Oh my God, you scared me,” he closed his eyes, heart pumping with adrenaline. He clutched his shirt where his heart was, breathing deeply to calm down. </p><p>“Dear me, I’m sorry, John,” Mrs Hudson said, looking apologetic. Her hair was a little ruffled and she was still wearing her work trousers and blouse. “I must’ve dozed off on the couch. I was thinking of what doll to make, you see.”</p><p>She showed John a paper she was holding with a little sketch of the doll. It was simplistic, but elaborate enough. It was a princess with silver hair, a crooked smile on her face, and her dress was to be made of orange and yellow fabrics. The proportions were measured to be about the size of a small child. </p><p>“It doesn’t look bad,” John said, angling the paper to the side. “Definitely cuter than the creepy ones upstairs.”</p><p>“Nonsense!” Mrs Hudson snatched the paper back, tearing it into pieces. John blinked at his empty hands, then at the upkeeper. “I thought of making an original princess, but it doesn’t have the right ring to it!”</p><p>John smacked his lips, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. Now that the initial adrenaline was gone he was sleepy again. Why did she even ask for his opinion? He was trash at it. “How about you make someone you know? From real life?”</p><p>“Hm…” Mrs Hudson’s fingers tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I could make Mrs Turner into the wicked witch that she is, that’s true.”</p><p>“Uhm, sure! Or, you know, just someone who lives in the town.”</p><p>“That’s true. Oh! I’ve just got a great idea, John! Thank you!” She patted him on the cheek and went to sit by the table. He saw her reach to open a drawer and take out a pair of crocheting needles and wool. He had no idea that was stored in the kitchen. </p><p>“Don’t you want to go home, Mrs Hudson?” John asked, concern distorting his sleepy face with a frown, albeit tired one. </p><p>“Ah, not really,” she waved a hand. She tried to be detached about it, but John saw through it. Something troubled her. “My sister is acting up again. Not something I want to be hearing tonight. Besides, this is too exciting for me to put it off!”</p><p>John studied her aloof expression but didn’t push the matter further. It wasn’t his place to ask questions. “Alright, then. I’m turning in. But do yourself a favour and knit in the living room, in case you doze off again. Your back will thank you.”</p><p>“As you instruct, Dr Watson,” she winked at him, and scurried off in front of the telly. </p><p>~*~</p><p>It was past seven when Greg was roused from sleep by the sunrays poking in through the window of his office. The past couple of days had finally caught up with him, exhaustion dragging him under the covers the moment he finished with his bathroom routine. He slept like a log, but God. Had he needed the crash. </p><p>Feeling rejuvenated, he stretched like a cat until his muscles screamed with pleasure. He dressed into his usual shirt and black trousers, rolling up the sleeves. It was supposed to be above thirty degrees celsius today. (Well, the prediction was in fahrenheit, but he hated it and had a regular weather app, like a <em>normal </em>person.)</p><p>He remembered it was Saturday and that the Shack was closed for the day. Bliss. He’d had enough of annoying tourists for the time being. He loved the money they brought, but it could be challenging, not laughing in their faces or keeping <em>his </em>face straight as he baited them on yet another ‘monster’ he found while driving around the town. But the hardest part was convincing the skeptical people to believe his bullshit. He was successful for the most part, thanks to his unfaltering charisma and a few tricks he had up his sleeve. </p><p>Greg’s stomach grumbled; it was time for breakfast. A part of him wished that Mrs Hudson had made something, but the other scolded him for silently expecting his employee and friend to do more than she had initially wagered for (however willingly). The smell encasing the inside of the house told him he was lucky. Bacon and eggs it is. </p><p>He made a great deal of noise coming downstairs, unbothered whether he woke up the youngsters sleeping above or not. He followed the delicious aroma of pork fat and ketchup, ready to greet Mrs Hudson, and then he suddenly came face to face with a still, quiet expression, a tiny aloof smile curving its lips.</p><p>“WHAT THE FUCK-” he hollered, legs bucking backwards, stumbling. Greg had to grip the doorframe not to fall, gasping for air. </p><p>“Ah, there you are!” Mrs Hudson beamed at him innocently, holding the life-sized doll under its long arms. “I was about to put the Other Greg on the couch to let him have some rest. What do you think?”</p><p>“I think that I shouldn’t have consented to this in the first place,” Greg grumbled, steadying himself. He ran a hand through his silver-stricken temple. “Christ, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. But you did scare the shit out of me.”</p><p>“You and your crude language, Greg,” Mrs Hudson shook her head, giving him a glare. She uplifted the doll (or puppet?) slightly to get Greg to look at it. “And say hi to you!”</p><p>“Me?”
</p><p>“Yes,” she nodded proudly. “John gave me the wonderful idea, actually. He said I could try making someone I already know, and I thought it would be a waste doing Mrs Turner. She’s such a prude these days, anyhow.”</p><p>“Good to know I’m not a waste of wool,” Greg muttered, picking at the doll’s arms. It was thinner than he was, but he guessed it added to the fictionality of it. Like what Nic Cage had going on before his brain was eaten by rats in the attic. </p><p>“Of course not, don’t be silly. I tried to give you this prince glow, though I’ve no idea whether I was successful.”</p><p>“It looks pretty nifty to me,” Greg pursed his lips into an impressed line. The doll’s torso was made of beige wool, and Mrs. Hudson snatched one of his older shirts to dress it in, but the trousers were knitted as they were. The pair of shoes the doll was wearing was also handmade (so much for fitted and tailored), and he noticed Mrs Hudson stuffed its biceps <em>just </em>right. The thing that was off was the hair. While Greg didn’t mind greying relatively early on, he was still brown haired for the most part - but Mrs Hudson seemed to have ignored that. “Should I be offended you made me an old man?”</p><p>Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and carried the imposter doll to the living room. She seated it on the sofa, crossing its legs leisurely. She even put the remote under its hand. As if it could switch to a different channel. Jesus. </p><p>The upkeeper clasped her hands in her lap as she sat next to the doll, smoothing out the creases in her apron. “I’ll be honest with you Greg: brown hair doesn’t suit you.”</p><p>“Wha- What do you mean? It’s my natural hair colour!” he protested, hand flying up instinctively to touch it. Great, now he could add <em>hair self-consciousness </em>to his list of self-loathing. He never called himself a vain man, and he was a slob enough to never be called that by anyone, but… He was born with it! It did get him dates with a particular extraordinary man, too, even though that could be described as more of a side effect of a particular incident. </p><p>Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow, as though she knew better. She did, more often than not, but she could’ve put it differently!</p><p>“Don’t take it the wrong way, because you are a handsome young man,” she said earnestly, “but I’ve been here for a long time. Your natural hair colour doesn’t flatter you.” She put up her hands, fingers bending and shaping weird angles as she framed his face. “While I don’t doubt it made you cuter when you were a boy, now it is this brown you have that adds ten years to your person. But when I imagine you <em>without </em>it -” she positioned her fingers <em>just </em>right, “- and pretend this silver-grey is the only colour, now <em>that’s </em>perfect. It would make you look brighter and happier. <em>And </em>it’d complement your skin tone.”</p><p>“Wow, so I have to have the hair of an eighty-year-old to be sexy?”</p><p>“I only have your best interest at heart.”</p><p>“Christ, alright, we’re <em>not </em>having this talk.”</p><p>“But Mrs Hudson has a point,” Irene’s voice echoed from the kitchen, making Greg wince. He hadn’t heard her walk in. She came to the living room eating a toast and a handful of cherry tomatoes. “You would look better with that hair. Silver fox, they call it.”</p><p>Greg buried his face in his face. Even on his day off he couldn’t get rest. The worst thing was that they were probably right. He never was one for knowing what looked good on him and what did not (Mrs Hudson helped him a lot nowadays, honestly - plus he mostly played it cool with shirts and trousers, that worked marvels), but he still thought his hair as it was now was fine. Hm. He’ll consider it. But he won’t tell them they had already partially won. They probably knew in spite of his protest.</p><p>“I appreciate you both telling me your concerns, but I’m happy with my hair as it is,” he said, leaning on the door frame, half-lying. Neither of them seemed convinced. He saw them exchange conspiratory glances, struggling not to giggle. “Hey, what’s up with you two?”</p><p>“Nothing, your majesty,” Irene said under her breath, eyes twinkling with mischief as she stole a glance at Mrs Hudson. </p><p>Greg knew when he wouldn’t pry out more information than they’d want to give, so he moved on. “Right, then. What do you think of my imposter, Irene? I think Hudders did an awesome job.”</p><p>“Oh, this one’s cute,” she said approvingly. “I hate the collection upstairs, there’s something unsettling about the dolls there. But this one is made by Mrs Hudson, that’s enough for me. She reminds me of this Homestuck character, Rose. She also knitted a lot. And she was a badass like Mrs Hudson, too.”</p><p>“Aw, that’s sweet of you, Irene!” the woman blushed, winking and patting the girl’s hand. “It took all night but I’m fast with the needles.”</p><p>A light bulb lit above Greg’s mess of a hair. Oh, this was a brilliant idea. </p><p>“Well, I guess we can reopen the doll museum now!”</p><p>~</p><p>Plans were set in motion regarding the big reopening. Greg fretted around the Shack, ordering everyone to do this or that. Irene was helping Mrs Hudson make the leaflets, meanwhile John and Sherlock were left to rearrange a part in the museum so that it had enough empty space to showcase the dolls. What could have been a lazy Saturday was now a battlefield of outwitting future tourists. </p><p>“I’m starting to hate Lestrade with each furniture piece we move,” Sherlock panted as he and John set a particularly heavy crate down. He shrugged off his suit vest and unbuttoned the first button on his shirt.</p><p>“More moving, less talking,” Lestrade clipped from the end of the room, lightning a cigarette. Then he left to check up on Irene and the upkeeper in the kitchen. Sherlock angled his head in the direction of the trail of smoke, taking in the faint sniff of nicotine to let him carry through the day.</p><p>“You always call him Lestrade,” John noticed, sitting on the crate. He crossed his arms and twisted his torso to look at Sherlock. Sweat droplets gathered at his temples, hair sticking out impossibly. Sherlock had a hard time averting the urge to come nearer and run his fingers through the small tangles. “Why is that?”</p><p>Sherlock popped his lips and hissed a breath. First things first, he didn’t really care much how he referred to him. They’re going to be here for less than two months now, why bother? He’ll probably never see the man again. Second, he didn’t bother remembering Lestrade’s first name, even though the rest of the house called him by that name constantly. It wasn’t relevant to anything Sherlock took interest in. But… would John think of him less for this? He didn’t want that. Granted, he still didn’t care, but what will John think if he comes clear?</p><p>“Does it matter?” Sherlock said, kicking a cable out of the way. A rush of blood pinkened his cheekbones, he could feel it. That was embarrassing.</p><p>“I’m curious, ‘s all,” John shrugged. Sherlock felt his gaze on himself. He didn’t answer. “Hold on - do you even <em>know </em>his first name?”</p><p>Sherlock averted his gaze to the ceiling, contemplating his answer. He had to act fast. Crap, okay. Improvisation never betrayed him. </p><p>“As if it matters what Gavin’s name is,” he said hastily, hoping that John would mishear the name if he talked faster than usual. He swallowed with difficulty, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I find ‘Lestrade’ more suitable. It’s not like he’s my next of kin.”</p><p>His eyes drifted to John’s, whose mouth was slightly agape, but not in the horrified sense of the word. More amused and entertained than offended. He licked his lips, mouth opening and closing, no word leaving his throat. He blinked, bit his cheek, as if trying not to chuckle. </p><p>“Did you just call him Gavin?” he croaked, his shoulders shaking. There were crinkles around his eyes. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of this behaviour. Should he prepare for a fight? He wasn’t good with reading social cues while he was flushed. </p><p>John must’ve seen Sherlock’s confusion, because he just lost it. “Oh my God, you have no idea what his name is! How come? We call him by his first name all the time.”</p><p>“It’s unimportant,” Sherlock muttered, walking to a coffee table they were moving next. He panicked, but he saw this as an opportunity to make it an inside joke of their own. He winked at John. “Whatever Grant’s name is, it won’t matter. We’re here for the next mere six weeks. Then we return to England, and we’ll probably never see him again.”</p><p>John went quiet, and Sherlock wondered whether he had said something bad. He heard the blond walk up to him, grabbing the opposite end of the table as they lifted it. </p><p>“You could come next year too, you know,” John said casually, but he cleared his throat as if to grant himself more courage. “<em>Greg</em> won’t mind having you around.”</p><p>Sherlock waved a hand at the name as if it annoyed him. “Yes, I’m sure he won’t mind having another slave around.”</p><p>“Hey, I know he is very…. entrepreneur-ish with his approach to the Shack occasionally, but he isn’t heartless. And he actually likes you.”</p><p>“I doubt it,” Sherlock laughed ruefully. Lestrade barely knew him, how could he like him? Besides, Sherlock isn’t very likeable to begin with, in his own opinion. Some remark always escapes him about other people, and he isn’t very sociable on his own.</p><p>John’s hand squeezed his shoulder. He looked at it expectantly, as if waiting for it to do something, like tell him the meaning of the universe and life. Or the number forty-two. </p><p>“Listen,” John said. “Which one of us knows Greg better? I do. So trust me. Yes, he may be tough when it comes to business, but he cares. He took us out to the Lake, if you remember.”</p><p>“And proceeded to get stuck at the Shack because he is careless around kleptomaniac racoons.”</p><p>“And we wandered off with two strangers to stop a ghost from drowning men.”</p><p>“Fair point.” Sherlock scratched his chin, trying to find words to continue a somewhat logical route in this conversation. “I’ll think about your offer.”</p><p>“Good!” John beamed, and Sherlock was glad to see the smile spread across his face. “Well, I’m sure Greg will ask you to come next year, too. He’ll just leave it to the last minute. And anyway, we can always meet up in Toronto as well.”</p><p>“If you say so.” Secretly, Sherlock hoped Lestrade would ask them to come again. Especially if that meant John would come, too. What he predicted to be a completely boring holiday turned out to be quite exciting, and he got John’s friendship on top of it. And maybe - just <em>maybe</em> - there could be more. At least that’s what his deepest subconscious wished for.</p><p>~</p><p>When the Shack was acceptably presentable to Greg, he declared the day over and let everyone breathe. He didn’t stop nagging them about some things he thought they could’ve done better, but he didn’t push it. He clearly sensed that even Mrs Hudson was getting irritated. </p><p>They ordered takeaway from the local diner. Mrs Hudson didn’t have time to cook due to her preoccupation with the leaflets and then fixing the lighting in the museum. Irene had the misfortune of moving the dolls downstairs, but Greg allowed her to arrange them to her liking. He trusted her sense for detail. </p><p>After dinner they retreated to the living room to watch <em>Dog-dective Doug</em>, despite Sherlock’s obvious disinterest. He shut up after Irene pinched him in the arm, but John knew he was far from being content. </p><p>He sat down beside Sherlock on the floor, back pressed to the sofa. Greg and his imposter - OG, a.k.a. the Other Greg - were seated in the armchair on their far left. Mrs Hudson sat on the sofa with Irene, both with their feet up on the coffee table. There was enough space for yet another person to sit with them, but Sherlock didn’t bother, and neither did John. </p><p>John tried to focus on the re-run of the show, but he found himself staring at the back of Sherlock’s tilted head. He hadn’t realised that they wouldn’t stay here longer than for the summer holidays. Something heavy sat on his chest at the thought of it. He knew it was silly to get attached to someone he met two weeks ago, but he couldn’t help it. His stay at Reichenbach Falls was better and more exciting with Sherlock and Irene around. At this point, he wasn’t sure whether he would be able to even part ways with them when the time to go to uni presented itself at the end of August but… There was that tiny spark of hope that the siblings would come back next year. And there was the hypothetical possibility that they’d stay in touch in Toronto, too. </p><p>Ads cut in, leaving them on a cliffhanger before the big revelation and Greg and Irene both groaned, dissatisfied. Mrs Hudson was roused from her nap, straightening her back with a jolt of realisation that she should be going home. They bid her farewell as she grabbed her car keys. </p><p>“Hey, John, you could make us popcorn,” Greg said five minutes into the ads. There was no sign of them stopping anytime soon. </p><p>“Alright,” he grunted, getting to his feet. He nudged Sherlock’s ankle, jerking his head towards the kitchen. “Help me?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged, his forehead adorably scrunching up, but he got up nonetheless. John caught Irene watch them with a smirk before her eyes focused on the TV screen. Huh. </p><p>John popped the corn packet in the microwave and set it to three minutes. The loud humming of the appliance was joined by an ad about honey with a catchy jingle. </p><p>“You set it wrong,” Sherlock said suddenly. </p><p>“Huh?” John pouted thoughtfully. He spaced out for a second, staring at the hypnotising rotation of the popcorn packet. He became awfully aware of Sherlock’s presence next to him. Sherlock scrutinized the microwave with his piercing blue-and-green eyes, his face mere centimeters from John’s. This way, he could peck him on the cheek. <em>Okay, stop that Watson</em>.</p><p>“The watts on the microwave are enough to set the time to two minutes and thirty seconds,” Sherlock said, showing John the plastic wrap in which the popcorn came. He never bothered to read the tiny letters on it; he just knew from years of experience that three minutes did the magic. </p><p>“I stop it when it starts smelling like it’s burning,” John shrugged, returning his gaze to the expanding popcorn. His heart rate sped up, Sherlock’s warm breath tingling the skin on his shoulder. The pops almost sounded like gunshots this close. </p><p>“You lot are savages,” Sherlock murmured, tossing the plastic wrap into the bin, but there was a hint of smile. His curls were tousled and a little frizzy from today’s humid air. John wondered if they were as soft as they looked like.</p><p>“Hey, as long as we have running water and toilets, I’m fine with the popcorn,” John grinned, pressing a button to stop the microwave. A hint of smoke hit his nose. “That should do it. Pass me a bowl, will you?”</p><p>Sherlock did as he was told, but Greg stormed in, grabbing a handful of popcorn into his fist and stuffing his mouth with it not unlike a rabid squirrel. “Need to go out,” he said, spitting little bits of corn on them. John flicked a piece off of his cheek in annoyance. “Donovan texted she’s hosting a poker night and she wants to win against her nemesis Riley, so I’m heading over to help her.”</p><p>“Wait, what?” John stopped him, forehead wrinkling. “Isn’t this against her moral code or something? She wouldn’t let you fish without a permit but she’ll let you help her cheat and win money in poker?”</p><p>Greg grinned broadly and took his jacket from where it hung on a nail. “She’s not on duty tonight. Don’t wait up for me!”</p><p>“The police officers here are more questionable than Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said, taking a small piece of popcorn between his thumb and index finger. He sniffed at it and observed it as though it were a newfound form of life. John couldn’t help but stare in amusement. </p><p>“It’s not going to bite, you know,” he said, nodding to Sherlock to eat it. </p><p>“Bland,” Sherlock judged, swallowing. </p><p>“Yes. That’s why I dip it in chilli sauce,” John said triumphantly, taking two bottles of sweet and extra spicy chilli sauce out of the fridge. One look at Sherlock told him that the boy was intrigued, watching him like a hawk. </p><p>“What are you two up to?” Irene’s voice cut through the ‘pop’ as John opened the bottles with sauces. </p><p>“An experiment,” Sherlock replied dryly and John smiled at the chilli. </p><p>“Want to join us?” John asked, because Sherlock wouldn’t. He poked him with his elbow for good measure, eliciting a small growl from the boy. Too bad, in his pyjamas he reminded John of a feisty kitten.</p><p>“What is it, though?”</p><p>“Popcorn with chilli sauce.”</p><p>“Disgusting. Bring it to our attic room.”</p><p>~</p><p>Sherlock had to admit, John and his savage ways regarding his stance to cuisine and food as a whole could be remarkable. Popcorn with sweet chilli sauce? Brilliant. How come he never thought of such a combination himself? Ah, yes, he didn’t eat popcorn much, but still. He may give it another try. </p><p>Irene was less inclined to favour this option; she preferred the regular, bland version. Dull. She had no creativity in gastronomy. Thankfully she let them devour the bowl as she declined eating any more of that ‘atrocity’ as she had called it. </p><p>Sherlock reached for another piece of slightly burnt popcorn and dipped it in the sauce. It was simply delicious. John seemed to notice his satisfaction, because he asked, “Like it?”</p><p>“Tremendously,” Sherlock replied, diving in for another bite. </p><p>“Once you begin there’s no going back,” John said, smirking. Irene made a disgusted noise from where she sat on her bed, reading a magazine of sorts. It featured popular music bands from around the world, none of which he was familiar with. </p><p>“Shut up, Irene. Your taste buds have no imagination or appreciation,” Sherlock deadpanned, licking his fingers. He needed more of this. <em>Now</em>.</p><p>Fortunately, John had the same desire as he rose to his feet, saying he’ll get more. He left the door open on his way downstairs. Sherlock listened as his footsteps became less and less audible. </p><p>“So, how are things moving with our hot Doctor friend?” Irene said, flipping a page without breaking eye contact with the article. She smirked as Sherlock let out a sigh. He should’ve seen this coming. She kept quiet for far too long.</p><p>“Nothing is moving anywhere, Irene,” he said, irritated. She flipped another page and angled it to her lamp’s light to get a better look at the pages. </p><p>“Are you sure?” she mock-pouted at the picture she was observing. There was a model, not handsome by Sherlock’s standards from the limited view he had of it. “Because you two get along pretty well.”</p><p>“Yes, well, <em>Irene</em>. I have a faint memory of you and Mummy talking that I should get some friends,” he gritted through his teeth. God, she was insufferable. Also correct, and therefore insufferable by default. “So, I did. You should be happy about it.”</p><p>“Oh, but I <em>am</em>,” she purred. She finally focused on him and tossed the magazine aside. She tossed her legs over the edge of the bed that they were planted on the carpet below. “But there could be something more than just friendship, you know?”</p><p>“I’m not talking about it here.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“What ‘hm’?”</p><p>“Nothing. I’ll just find a better opportunity to talk some sense into you, then.”</p><p>“Don’t bother. You won’t be successful. John and I are friends, nothing more. And it will stay like it, because at the end of August, we part ways. And then we likely won’t see each other ever again. It would be illogical to start anything for a few weeks.”</p><p>Irene opened her mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut her off, as much as his own words pained him. He pointed to the stairs, which creaked under John’s weight and steady, regular steps. There was a determined look in her face that eloquently said that this debate isn’t over. </p><p>“What would be illogical?” John asked, tapping into the room with a fresh batch of popcorn, still steaming from the microwave blasting. </p><p>Before Sherlock could answer that they discussed some trivial memory, a blood-curdling scream rattled the Shack all over. </p><p>“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”</p><p>The step-siblings froze, as did John mid-step. “Wasn’t me,” he peeped, casting an uncertain sideways look to the stairwell. </p><p>“<em>AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!</em>”</p><p>“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted, rushing past John to find the upkeeper. </p><p>She was standing on the threshold of the living room, clutching her chest, distressed. She latched onto Sherlock, shaking him by the shoulders. Pointing to the armchair, she said, “<em>Someone murdered the Other Greg!</em>”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, case. Sherlock's first murder, in fact! More on that in five days ;) And that's also when the creepy stuff sets in~<br/>How do you enjoy the pining? As you could see, John is slowly losing it, and Sherlock is a mess internally as well, hehe. </p><p>Next update on the 30th!</p><p>I hope you all are doing okay and stay safe &lt;3<br/>Feel free to leave a comment, I'm always happy to hear from you &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 25.10. 2020<br/>Word count: 4652<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee, who does amazing fanart: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care!</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. A Study in Clues III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are clues </p><p>episode 3, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! We're mid-way through chapter episode 3, and shit is getting real. Andddd we're also over 300 hits! Wow!! A nice even number if you ask me :D<br/>Thank you all for reading, this fic is almost 2 months old and this is amazing, honestly<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, who got to beta read this for me and got similarly flabbergasted as to how this escalated. Well, what can I say, you'll see for yourselves~</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“A murder?” John repeated, flipping the lightswitch on. The artificial light revealed OG to be lying on the floor lifelessly - as much as an inanimate object can. Knitting needles stabbed his X shaped eyes to add to the realism of it, and a knife was sticking out of the back of OG’s head, his stomach gutted. “Christ, that’s rough.”</p><p>“Who would do this?” Mrs Hudson wailed as Irene appeared next to her. The older woman latched onto her dramatically, sobbing into a handkerchief. “He didn’t do anything wrong!”</p><p>“Yikes…” was all Irene said. </p><p>John stepped forward to get a better look, but Sherlock stopped him. “Wait, let me.”</p><p>Sherlock surged forward on the crime scene, crouching down first to scan the body. There weren’t any footprints per se surrounding it, but then the carpet was flatter than local diner’s provincial pancakes. The Other Greg lay on his back, limbs akimbo. The knitted smile on his pale woolly face was even creepier. There was stuffing pouring onto the carpet where he was cut in his abdomen. At least it wasn’t real blood, that would be real unfair to Mrs Hudson or John to clean it up.</p><p>“This is brilliant,” Sherlock proclaimed giddily, clasping his hands together like a tent under his chin. Irene’s reprimanding cough suggested otherwise. He half-apologised over his shoulder to Mrs Hudson, sticking his tongue out at his step-sister. </p><p>“Who would kill a doll?” John implored, shuffling closer to Sherlock to get a better look for himself. </p><p>“Too little data to answer that yet,” Sherlock clipped his tongue. He circled around OG as he inspected the eye stabbing. It wasn’t too deep, as though the person attacking wasn’t strong enough to pierce further. The cut in the abdomen was ragged, the attacker was struggling with that area as well. Interesting. “Technically, all of us except for Lestrade and Mrs Hudson  are suspects.”</p><p>“That’s nonsense,” Mrs Hudson sobbed. “None of you three did it. How could you even suggest that?”</p><p>“It’s only fair.”</p><p>“Oh shut it, you. You watch too much <em>Dog-dective Doug</em>.” Sherlock winced at the comparison. He was better than some stupid TV show! “And I know you, Sherlock. Neither of you three would kill the Other Greg. You’re all sweet and kind young people.”</p><p>“You can’t be sure of that,” Sherlock objected. He stood up, fingers smoothing his curls back. Time to play the devil’s advocate. “For one, none of us displayed any kind of pleasure near the dolls up in the secret room. I think it’s fairly obvious especially Irene didn’t favour them - I’m just stating the facts, don’t give me that look! - but nor did I. John was the more passive suspect in all of this, expressing more fascination than disgust. And Lestrade, apart from not being present at the Shack and therefore having safe and sound alibi, has bought the bloody dolls years ago and grieved that horrible effigy of Nicolas Cage.”</p><p>“What makes you think I wouldn’t kill OG when I fetched more popcorn?” John suggested.</p><p>“True, that may be an option. And while it’d be easy for you to gut the Other Greg, you wouldn’t get the…” </p><p>He paused, mind racing. The knitting needles… They were <em>off</em>.</p><p>“These aren’t the regular pair you use, Mrs Hudson,” he said, turning to the upkeeper. She dabbed at the creases of her eyes with a handkerchief, halting a sob. </p><p>“You… You’re right!” Her eyes widened as she stared at OG’s form and his ‘X’ shaped eyelids. “These are the ones I keep in the room upstairs!”</p><p>“The locked-at-all-times room?” Irene asked, forehead wrinkling. “I thought you hide nutella jars in there.”</p><p>“What on earth for? There are enough holes in these cheap walls for that. No, I keep my knitting and wools up there so no one messes with it. But I’m the only one with the access key! Oh, Sherlock, do you think someone broke in?”</p><p>Sherlock’s fingers danced on his chin, lost in thought. “We haven’t heard anyone breaking in. Granted, we’re in the attic, but the walls in America are paper thin. We would hear a forced entry. It doesn’t make sense! And John hadn’t noticed any suspicious activity either, partially due to his hunger, but also to his obtuseness late at night. No offense.”</p><p>“None taken,” John elbowed him, grinning, and Sherlock reciprocated the expression, though only with a hint of smile. He can’t get smitten by a cute Caadian on a<em> crime scene</em>.</p><p>Mrs Hudson and Irene exchanged glances which Sherlock blissfully ignored and refused to interpret deeper. He pointedly cleared his throat. “Could I get a look into your secret room? There may be more clues there.”</p><p>“Of course, of course,” Mrs Hudson agreed, stuffing the handkerchief up her sleeve. Huh, that was easy. She extricated herself from Irene’s comforting embrace and motioned for Sherlock to follow her.</p><p>“Irene, take pictures from numerous angles of the corpse,” Sherlock instructed, walking backwards out of the room, gesticulating wildly. “John, stay out of the shots, then transfer the corpse to the museum, on the -”</p><p>“Table in the centre, got it,” John finished, dipped his chin in approval. Irene had already whipped out her phone and snapped pictures. Sherlock’s mouth twitched - this was <em>perfect</em>. </p><p>He followed Mrs Hudson upstairs briskly, noting the smallest amounts of fluffy stuffings scattered across the halls. It was barely noticeable, and all the more intriguing. He collected the samples, filing them in his pyjama pockets for later analysis. </p><p>Mrs Hudson’s ‘out of bounds’ room wasn’t nearly as unique as he’d hoped. Sure, it was stashed with wools of distinctive origins, top to bottom, but he expected a lair of… whatever else. Something evil, maybe? Not in a bad way, just sinister enough to cause her to be rightfully fussy about it. </p><p>The door was locked, the lock wasn’t picked, and the window bore no signs of forceful entry either. It wasn’t exactly a homicide behind locked doors, but interesting nonetheless. His first murder case, and already so full of questions. </p><p>“Do you see something else of yours missing?” Sherlock asked, examining an alpaca wool dyed red next to a coat hanger. </p><p>Mrs Hudson murmured that she’ll check, and rummaged through her wardrobe and drawers. Crickets sang outside in the woods, disturbing the quiet summer night with their confessions. Sherlock took great interest in the wool; there were more types than he could dream of getting his hands on. He must ask Mrs Hudson whether he could take snippets of samples when this is over with. </p><p>“Everything else is the same,” Mrs Hudson announced, done with the check-up. Her thumbs fidgeted nervously, arms tucked close to her body. “Whoever was here, they only took the needles.”</p><p>“Are they special? The needles, I mean.”</p><p>“Not really. They’re old, to be frank. I got them the same day Greg employed me at the Shack eleven years ago.”</p><p>Sherlock put a blue appalachian wool back in its place. His eyes ran over every visible surface in the room, desperate for more clues. This couldn’t be another ghost case. Firstly, he would have noticed if the Shack was haunted, even if the journal didn’t state it. Secondly, it would be too repetitive - too <em>dull</em>. </p><p>He felt a gentle touch of fingers around his elbow. Mrs Hudson asked him a question. He was too busy searching for a possible explanation to notice. “Sorry?”</p><p>“What do you think so far, Sherlock?” There was uncertainty in her eyes and a distant sense of fear he hated to see there. Mrs Hudson shouldn’t be scared like this.</p><p>“I still don’t have enough data, Mrs Hudson,” he replied, looking around one last time. He will go consult the journal upstairs, it’s never bad to double check. “Meet me downstairs in the museum with Irene and John. I’ll be there in five.”</p><p>They departed and Sherlock rushed to the attic, frantically turning pages after pages to no avail. No mentions of hauntings, possessed furniture, or similar shenanigans. Or, the author was no longer here to write about it and this mess is more recent. <em>Or </em>it was in the absent two journals they haven’t found yet.</p><p>Sherlock closed the journal half irritated. His angst was self-centered, though. He prided himself on being able to foresee how certain circumstances played out in crappy TV shows, and even in real life when he trained his deductions. Yes, it was all trial and error as of now, but he was improving. Why was a doll homicide proving to be so difficult, then? Again, insufficient data… </p><p>With a growl, he rose to his feet and crossed the room to tumble downstairs. Passing the second floor corridor, a shadow passed in his peripheral vision. He froze, back straight as a rod, head turning ninety degrees to see what that was about. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Creating invisible foes to satisfy his wishful thinking?</p><p>He blinked several times, his feet moving on their own to walk up to Mrs Hudson’s secret room. She locked it, naturally, but she forgot to turn the lights off. A small strip of luminescent yellow light provided him with enough visibility to notice a scrap of fabric. It was stuck in the hinges of the door. </p><p>Sherlock tugged at it and it released with no problem; it was only pinched there. It was the size of his pinkie finger, soft and yet grainy in texture. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, holding it to the space under the door to see its colour. Faded pink. Huh. He saw it previously - but where? </p><p>Frowning, he stood up and pocketed the piece of fabric and set out to the museum below. </p><p>~</p><p>As soon as Irene was satisfied, she nodded to John to take hold of good ol’ OG to the museum. He did it with as much gentleness as he could muster. Wow, did he take it seriously. Well, who was she to criticise the manhandling of the dead? </p><p>She swiped through the crime scene photos, happy with the results. They were clear and taken from multiple angles as Sherlock had instructed. Damn, she was <em>good </em>at this. She could make a career out of it. Or have it as a paid hobby. </p><p>Mrs Hudson joined them in the museum part of the Shack soon after, somewhat better feeling but still shaken. Could the ‘murder’ of a doll tremble her to bits like this? While it was true that the nature of the crime had occurred to be stirring into the creepy territory, Irene couldn’t help but wonder how stuffed rags held so much emotional value for someone. To each their own, she guessed. She won’t judge Mrs Hudson - she made the bloody doll, after all. </p><p>Moments later Sherlock delighted them with his presence as well. He looked lost in thought, pondering the possible outcomes and culprits. Irene practically heard the cogs and wheels turning in that big brain of his. </p><p>“Got anything?” John’s steady, if a bit worn-out voice cut through the tension in the museum. The rest of the room was dark, Greg’s ‘creatures’ throwing long and distorted shadows on the walls. Only the doll display was bright and shining. Like the highlight of hell. </p><p>“No sign of foreign entry,” Sherlock shook his head, yawning. It was late. “Everything was locked… And they took needles specifically from that room.”</p><p>“Did someone know you had those needles in there, Mrs Hudson?” Irene asked the quiet woman, who regarded the dolls with a hard stricken look. </p><p>“No. I’ve got them the year Greg employed me, as I had told Sherlock. I used them for a while when he opened the doll museum in October that year, knitted some blankets for the Halloween atmosphere, you know. No one else used them.”</p><p>Sherlock rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw colourful hues in the shut-eye darkness. Mrs Hudson hugged him around the shoulders soothingly. </p><p>“Oh, Sherlock,” she tutted. “It’s alright, dear. It’s nothing in the grand scheme of things. I just feel sorry for the Other Greg. He didn’t get much of a chance to meet our idiot tourists, did he? We are all tired, we should get some rest and you may find more clues you overlooked in the morning. I overreacted myself.”</p><p>“I agree that we should postpone this,” John said. He bit on his fist to stifle a yawn. “Irene’s got the pictures for you, Sherlock. That’s some data to work with. The rest can wait. It’s not like OG will rot and start smelling.”</p><p>“I suppose,” Sherlock sighed, both of them ignoring Irene’s dry-heaving at the rotting comment. </p><p>Mrs Hudson’s heels clattered on the wooden tiles, the sound sharp and yet numbed by the late hour and exhaustion since the adrenaline has mostly worn off. Irene and John lingered with Sherlock where OG lay on a small coffee table, surrounded by the dolls. </p><p>“Oh,” Mrs Hudson halted, suddenly remembering. “If you go outside, mind the firepit. I burnt weeds there. It’s one meter deep and the coals are still alight along with some faint flames. Don’t want to rush you to the ER, do we? I’ll see you in the morning, dears.”</p><p>“Night, Mrs Hudson!” they bid her farewell, silence falling upon them like a thick blanket. Static was the only sound coursing through Irene’s mind and body, the sort of emptiness that made you feel light-headed and grounded at the same time. </p><p>“We should go sleep,” John yawned louder again into his fist. “Greg will demand an explanation and who knows how packed the Shack will be if he decides to cash this <em>mur-dur</em>.” </p><p>“I’m sleeping in,” Irene decided on the spot, not taking no for an answer should John challenge her on it. He didn’t attempt it in the slightest, a nod of his head acknowledging her wise decision. She turned to her brother, who was staring at OG, teeth grazing his lower lip, hands on hips defiantly. “Sherlock?”</p><p>No answer. With a sigh, she prompted her legs to move in his direction, not really in the mood to fight him. </p><p>“But it doesn’t make sense,” she heard him mutter. Great, there was this again. He did this when he was conducting his experiments at home, running diagnoses on poor worms and similar organisms. He said speaking to himself made him think more clearly, but it was also unnerving. </p><p>“Sherlock?” Irene tried again, mouth tilting downwards. If she won’t get to bed in five minutes and get her beauty sleep, she’ll murder <em>him </em>with the knitting needles. “Sherlock!”</p><p>“I heard you!” Sherlock shouted, long fingers entwining themselves in the sea of dark curls on his head. “But I don’t…. Even the journal didn’t have an answer! It all points to a sinister foe looming above us, but nothing occurred in the Shack that we’re aware of that would support the theory. No one broke into Mrs Hudson’s room, the ventilation in there was too small for a regular person to crawl in there from inside the Shack, we heard no disturbance before Mrs Hudson came back, there is simply no clue or lead as of now to show us the reason <em>why </em>anyone would murder the Other Greg!”</p><p>His breathing was shallow and ragged, chest rising and falling as he was calming himself down. Then he outstretched his hand to Irene. “Phone.”</p><p>“What for?” </p><p>“<em>The pictures</em>, what else?” Sherlock snapped as she handed him her iPhone with a roll of her eyes. She felt John shifting closer to them, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder to get a good look. She joined, repelled by the attitude as she was, staring at her screen and proud of her work. </p><p>“What do you think of my job as a forensic photographer?” </p><p>“I’ve nothing of real life quality to compare it to, so I deem it acceptable for the time being,” he said brusquely. John sighed tiredly next to him. Perhaps he was also tired of his behaviour this late. </p><p>“If you’re done with examining the evidence, I suggest we go and get a few hours of sleep,” John murmured. He rested his cheek softly on Sherlock’s sharp shoulder minutely, but withdrew almost immediately, clearing his throat. </p><p>But Sherlock, being the stubborn idiot that he was, was not put off or slowed down by such mortal merits as exhaustion or the need for sleep and rest. In fact, it riled him up even more. He kept scrolling through the photos, zooming in on random places fruitlessly. Irene and John exchanged worried glances. The blond reached out to put a hand around his shoulders like Mrs Hudson did in hopes to coerce him to go up in the attic room, but Sherlock wriggled out and circled OG, crouching to get a good look at his stab wound. </p><p>“It just doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock said to no one in particular, his gaze on the ceiling. “None of us did it. The cuts are shallow. If someone aimed for revenge, surely the knife and needles would be lodged deeper in the flesh. It’s impossible for it to be for laughs, because the attacker would choose another shameful way of discrediting the OG, something less tedious than stealing old needles without much trace. Except…”</p><p>Irene and John breathlessly watched him fish out a tiny piece of fabric. Sherlock angled it under the lightbulb hanging above the coffee table, squinting his eyes into a thin line. </p><p>“It’s still not enough,” he growled, running a hand through his hair. Frustration was seeping through him. He propped his elbow on the table next to OG and sighed dramatically. One would think they were next of kin and that Sherlock was mourning. </p><p>“That’s enough, Sherlock,” John said gently without a hint of irritation. He crouched down on his left, gently taking him by the elbow. Not a feat Irene would manage. Not at this hour. “We’re all going upstairs, sleep, and we’ll return in the morning. It’s not like there’s actual blood to dry and mix with another substance while we’re gone, so -”</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“There’s no actual blood to mix with another…”</p><p>“I should <em>bloody </em>well hope so,” Irene snapped, done with Sherlock’s musings. “Really, Sherlock! All this time we could’ve put this on hold and you’re still -”</p><p>“No, wait! I think I’ve got something!” </p><p>He unlocked Irene’s phone and zoomed in on the pictures again. She rolled her eyes at John. Of course Sherlock figured out her new password. </p><p>“The stuffing - what did Mrs Hudson fill the Other Greg with?” </p><p>The question hung in the air as he removed a tiny bit of OG’s stuffing out. To Irene, it looked like regular toy stuffing. The kind you have in teddy bears. </p><p>Sherlock turned it between his fingers meticulously. Then, a small particle of visibly different colour caught his eyes. He plucked it free from OG’s own stuffing. He unlocked Irene’s phone again and found a picture to his liking. She had no strength left to protest. </p><p>“It’s yellow,” Sherlock hummed, swiping the phone screen. He sniffed at the newly retrieved stuffing. “And old. Stale like those moth balls, perhaps. I haven’t noticed this before - it’s also on the picture you took up close, of the wound.”</p><p>“So?” Irene heard herself asking. </p><p>“<em>So</em>, how do we get old and new stuffing for dolls mixed in a freshly fabricated doll? Mrs Hudson didn’t waste resources to make the Other Greg as pristine as possible. The stuffing is essential for long-term possessions, I assume. It can probably withstand the washing and such tedious tasks.”</p><p>“How did it end up near the knife and OG, then?” </p><p>“Mr Rabbiarty!” </p><p>Irene and Sherlock turned to look at John with adept curiosity and shock. John bent in his waist as he grabbed a small plushie of a bunny with flouncy long ears out of the doll display. He finally realised the siblings were staring at him and he showed them the bunny. </p><p>“Greg gifted me Mr Rabbiarty my first summer here,” he explained, thumbs caressing the soft grey fur. It used to be a glove puppet, not plushie, but someone stuffed it out and added legs fitted to the proportions of the body. It was positively cute. “I was a bit homesick. Back then, anyway… I didn’t know we had him, I thought they threw him out or gifted him to kids.”</p><p>“Why Rabbiarty?” Sherlock mused, obviously astounded, but in a good way. Amused as well, maybe. His gaze was adoringly fixed at John. If Irene weren’t so damn irritated from the lack of sleep, she’d tease him openly about it. Lovestruck idiot - and he dared negate her when his pining was plain as a day! She needed to step up her matchmaking game.</p><p>John shrugged, turning the glove puppet to face him. His forefinger traced the black belly seam. “Don’t remember. But it fits him, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“It does, but I’d rather finish my theory as to <em>who </em>- or <em>what </em>- commited the murder,” Sherlock said mildly. He stood up, taking the knife out of the Other Greg. </p><p>“You won’t have to any longer,” a male voice from the doll display said. “They’re standing right behind you.”</p><p>~</p><p>The wind was knocked out of him before the realisation settled in. Sherlock registered a thump against the hard wooden floor and a pair of hands pulling him up. His torso <em>hurt</em>. His ribs were still a bit tender from that Gloria Scott escapade from two days ago. He got kicked square in his diaphragm and gasped for breath.</p><p>Sherlock ignored John’s distressed inquiry regarding his state of being - <em>miserable, thank you</em> - and braced himself for whatever the hell they were facing now. He figured it out, to a degree. Still, he glared in the general direction of the idiot who goes around kicking people in their chest. </p><p>He expected a psychopathic poltergeist. Instead, he got Nicolas Cage. </p><p>Fuck, that was way off.</p><p>The other dolls rose from their positions in eerie synchronicity. </p><p>Maybe he wasn’t <em>that </em>off.</p><p>Disney princesses, Will Smith, Nicolas Cage, and the Incredible Hulk (Sherlock recognised the green creature after John explained it to him) stretched their limbs and moved as though they always did. </p><p>Part of him expected rusty sounds to crackle from underneath the knitted and crocheted skins like bones, but it was creepily quiet. He noticed Mr Rabbiarty was dropped on the ground, midway from the dolls and Sherlock, John, and Irene. He was awfully small compared to the other displays and so hopeless on the ground. </p><p>“What the <em>fuuuck</em>…?” John whispered, taken aback by the scene unravelling in the museum. </p><p>Nicolas Cage bent in his misshapen form to take the knife which Sherlock dropped. Unlike the other dolls which had only the thumb separate from their hand, he had all five fingers that moved as he wished them to. Quite a good design. </p><p>“Sherlock?” Irene said, her voice strangled. “What is this? Was it in the journal?”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head, eyes wide with the initial shock still. The Disney Princesses had a horrifying aura about them; Cinderella looked rough like a vigilante assassin, even while wearing fabricated heels. Snow White indulged with a stolen red lipstick, smearing it across her features into a terrible crooked grin. Belle in her yellow ball gown evidently had trouble balancing, as she leaned on Aurora for support - and Aurora’s pink dress was torn! That’s where the piece was from!</p><p>“Seems like smarty-pants is figuring it out,” Nical Cage said stoically. His least damaged hand handled the knife, twisting it restlessly. There were crinkles on the glued poster face, the paper crumpling with age. And exposition to moist air. </p><p> “You put the bunny out of the box, now we’ll put you in the box.”</p><p>John sucked breath in through his teeth. Irene was perplexed, and Sherlock sure as hell didn’t get the implied reference. </p><p>Nicolas Cage tilted his head to the side, his expression fixed in a forever amused stare that was now unnerving. The tranquility and noiselessness of his movements ticked Sherlock off. He was too stealthy even in plain sight. </p><p>“Bravo, then, Holmes,” Cage said icily from behind the poster face. “You uncovered us. How smart. Princesses: clap!”</p><p>The mute princesses clapped, but Cage didn’t seem satisfied. He stormed off to their display, waving the knife threateningly above them as they cringed away from it. “Louder and more sarcastically!”</p><p>They did as told, more to his liking. </p><p>“Dear John Eckbert… how is this possible?” Irene gestured at the lot of them. Her eyebrows reamined up, brown eyes tired and confused. “Is this magic? How was this not in the journal?”</p><p>Cage turned his knitted neck at her, unnoticingly slumping. “Magic? And you mean the journal that was buried in the forest? No, no. We’re <strong>CURSED</strong>!”</p><p>He screamed so loud the disney princesses and even Hulk jumped at the decibels. John, on the other hand, took a protective stance of Sherlock and Irene. It was a small action, but Sherlock noted it. It was almost instinctual for John to do this - just like during the Gloria Scott case. He filed it away for later deduction.</p><p>Cage, somewhat containing his spark of anger, continued. “Gregory Lestrade bought us at a garage sale eleven and a half years ago -”</p><p>“It was hot,” the puppet of Will Smith interrupted, but he shut up immediately, cowering as if expecting a hit.</p><p>“- in Florida and California. My princesses are from the east coast and as savage as the man making headlines there. I’m from Hollywood. There was a wretched street shaman infatuated with my movies, and he wanted a clone. So, he summoned me. Gregory bought me when I became too much for the shaman - he wasn’t even that good at the craft, to be honest. Well, no. Gregory took me when he wasn’t looking, he asked twenty bucks for me. He later bought himself a sandwich and a cola, and shared. We instantly clicked.”</p><p>“But did he know you were cursed?” Sherlock inquired, absorbed into the story. </p><p>None of them noticed the Disney Princesses sneaking up to OG to grab the knitting needles. </p><p>“Don’t be absurd,” Cage laughed without emotion. The glued poster face was unnerving no matter what emotion his voice conveyed. “I never animated in front of him. But we were buddies. He also loved my movies. That was nice.”</p><p>“<em>He’s fucking creepy,</em>” Irene whispered to him and John, and they nodded imperceptibly. </p><p>“I hung out in the museum, helped him get rich. He sometimes sat with me and gossiped. That was also nice. He confided in me, too. When things with his partner got a little tense and all, you know how it goes.”</p><p>Irene hummed, deserving an elbowing from Sherlock. John pursed his lips tight. </p><p>“Gregory was an amazing friend,” Cage said with that frozen poster expression. No one would take that as a sincere statement. “And I only reciprocated. I cursed those who didn’t find this great home he gave me - <em>us </em>- as astonishing as we did.”</p><p>Sherlock’s light bulb lit up above his head. “And <em>that’s </em>why he had to close your exhibition! The letters were true! Less and less people started visiting and it cut the profits, so he had to come up with something else. He moved you upstairs.”</p><p>Cage limped forth, but stopped before Mr Rabbiarty and tilted his balloon-shaped head to look at the plushie. </p><p>“He promised to come back,” Cage said, a hint of sadness in the background of his flat voice. “And he did, for a while. He got lonely, after his partner… No, I will keep his secrets. None of your business. But then, he slowly stopped coming. We got cemented in, my princesses and I -”</p><p>“Man, you always forget about me and Hulk!” Will Smith protested, and Hulk hummed in agreement. Both were ignored. </p><p>“- and it got lonely. Until a few days ago.”</p><p>“Hold on, let me figure this out,” Sherlock said, clasping his fingers together in his thinking position under his chin. Irene’s warning passed through his ears. “We practically reminded Lestrade of your whereabouts. He most likely put it out of his head, your room. You hoped things would get back to how they used to be - the only problem was that you wouldn’t be the centre of it.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” John said, eyes unrelenting.</p><p>“Don’t you remember what Mrs Hudson had said? She wanted Lestrade to toss him out, saying she’d knit a new doll.”</p><p>“I had Aurora and Pocahontas spy on her, and on Gregory. I won’t lie, I was jealous of his enthusiasm. He refused to throw me out, but he liked this… this poser better! That’s unacceptable! We had to get rid of him.”</p><p>“So you had sent Aurora to Mrs Hudson’s room to retrieve the knitting needles - but why? That’s very particular.”</p><p>“She knitted my scarf with them,” Cage explained. He toed closer to them. Sherlock saw John clench and unclench his fists. “I only found it appropriate to kill this bastard with a sentimental weapon of choice.”</p><p>“That’s clever - getting someone else to do your dirty work,” Sherlock said almost giddily. He had a feeling it wasn’t most appropriate. What should he do? His first murder case was about revenge - statistically probably common, he hadn’t checked yet, but still. </p><p>The Disney Princesses stirred offendedly. Cinderella rolled up her sleeves as though she was prepared to tackle him right then and there. Pfft, as if a ragged doll could do any damage. </p><p>“That’s where you’re wrong, kiddo,” Cage said criptically and something in the air cracked. The princesses grew in size, they were now the height of a kindergartener. </p><p>Okay, scratch that comment about Cinderella - she could surely beat him to a plump. And she probably will, if it escalates. </p><p>“My princesses are actually weaker in this bigger state,” - Sherlock let out a quiet sigh - “but they are good at strangling. But before we get to that, I’ll just tell you this: they helped me get down tonight. Aurora and Belle with the needles, Snow White with the knife. Pocahontas guided me and together we got rid of this unworthy piece of trash. Granted, my strength isn’t what it used to be. I would have to feel true rage for that to work, but then I only felt sadness. As you observed a little while ago, the cuts were shallow at best. I got my revenge anyway.”</p><p>“Did you?” Sherlock pursed his lips. His body vibrated with a playful energy he knew he will regret in a moment. John and Irene watched Cage too intensely to pick up on his intention to rile up the doll. “The Other Greg was the reason this museum was going to open, you know. If it weren’t for Mrs Hudson, you’d be locked up in the second floor room forever.”</p><p>“I don’t give a damn about that wretched woman!” Cage yelled, voice high-pitched. John, Sherlock, and Irene collectively gasped, as did Will Smith. </p><p>“You won’t dare insult Mrs Hudson!” Irene shouted, pointing a finger accusingly at Cage. John and Sherlock were similarly scandalised. </p><p>Cage took a step forward, squashing Mr Rabbiarty. John gasped at the sight of that, and Sherlock cursed the doll even more. Can’t he see it holds precious memories for John?! </p><p>“And you won’t dare anger me, either,” Cage said, and Sherlock could have sworn his immovable features darkened. “Now that you know our secret, you must <strong>die</strong>.”</p><p>“Oh shit.”</p><p>It didn’t matter who said it. All hell broke loose. </p><p>The three teens were hounded into a corner by the enlarged princesses, and Ariel took great pleasure at clicking one of the needles against the wood. She probably knew a lot about stabbing. John’s outstretched arms shielded Irene and Sherlock, pulling them behind him.</p><p>The princesses were muffling something intelligible; their mouths were only marked with a withered pen ink. How did Cage manage to speak, then? It’s not like they could open their mouths without jaws. </p><p>Snow White holding the other needle surged forward, but John was quicker. He grabbed a folding chair he bumped into, grabbed the backseat and whacked Snow White and Ariel <em>hard</em>. The rag dolls flew across the museum in a <em>swoosh </em>and hit the wall. </p><p>“He did say they were weakened when this big,” John said pointedly, nodding to Cage who had frozen in disbelief. At least Sherlock thought it could be interpreted as such. “Just use anything stronger than paper straws!”</p><p>Irene and Sherlock followed suit. Irene plucked up the courage and got a hold of imbalanced Belle and her huge gown by the ankles and swung her about like a mace. She squeaked on impact with Aurora and Jasmine, but they weren’t put off for long. That’s when Sherlock grabbed a pair of garden scissors (how did they end up here?) and <em>cut</em>. </p><p>A terrible sound vibrated in Jasmine’s woolly throat - she now had two halves made of her body. The other princesses stared in horror, as did Nicolas Cage. Will Smith whistled sympathetically and the Hulk raised his muscular arms and cheered them on to continue. </p><p>“That’s brutal,” Irene summed up and resumed whacking Snow White across the head. Jasmine’s upper half was helping itself move to a safer location under the table, her cloth arms trembling. </p><p>Sherlock got on with cutting up Cinderella too, once she slipped on her heels. He couldn’t avoid wincing in sympathy. John discovered a baseball bat hung up on a wall nearby and used that to strike the princesses across the room. And they kept coming for more. </p><p>A shove from the side got Sherlock off balance and he tripped, the scissors flying across the room and behind a bunch of heavy crates with Mystery Shack merch. Cage tripped him. But it was good to see he was unsteady too. The thing that was threatening, though…</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the cliffhanger! We'll resolve it next chapter :) If you're wondering why Nicolas Cage..... Man, I've no idea, it just came to me in a moment of inspiration. Because you see, Nic Cage's smile is just never-changing in pictures, so now imagine an LA shaman glueing it to a doll, doing a spell, and the fucker is homicidal. <br/>The 'put the bunny in the box' is a reference to the movie Con Air, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rL5xynZahRQ">here’s link to the video, it’s short.</a> And honestly hilarious. I also borrowed this 'meme' from Homestuck. John Eckbert, who Irene referenced, was a fan of Nic Cage and Act 1 was full of it. <br/>Oh yeah, and we also have Will Smith. And Hulk. And... yeah. More lore!</p><p>Also, more pining. John can't find his urges much, hah. And Sherlock can't resist not getting seduced by a Canadian.</p><p>Next update on the 5th! Stay safe, everyone. Tomorrow I'm going to get tested for C19 (it's required by the state, everyone is doing it here in Slovakia the next two weekends) so wish us luck. I've been at home for online schooling for the past three weeks anyway, hopefully we're fine. <br/>Feel free to leave a comment &lt;3 </p><p>Updated: 30.10. 2020<br/>Word count: 5646<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's tumblr (my artist for hire): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care &lt;3</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. A Study in Clues IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are s'mores</p><p>episode 3, chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! We're back with yet another chapter of Reichenbach Falls, the showdown between Nicolas Cage and trio about to get its peak performance. Just an FYI, I don't have anything against Cage, but.... yeah, somehow he just became my meme :D<br/>Thank you all for reading!! We're at 320+ hits and aw, this is amazing :3 cookies for everyone!<br/>Seriously, thank you. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!<br/>Special thanks do Bee and Dee, the latter being my test subject for reactions for Nicolas Cage - Dee can tell ya how nightmarish she feels about Cage thanks to me :DD</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bloody fucker Cage found a katana. Why the fuck was there a <em>katana </em>in the museum? Where the fuck did Greg get one? And why is he asking himself pointless questions when the maniac doll is swinging it at Sherlock?!</p><p>Before John knew it, his knees hit the hard wood as he slid across the ragged floor and counter-striked Cage’s weapon. He pushed Sherlock aside and scurried to stand up to be even. He almost tripped again on Mr Rabbiarty who was currently haphazardly watching the events unfold from below. Poor animal. John will have to apologise later. (Fuck if it’s childish, he hadn’t seen him in <em>years</em>! He missed the tiny guy!)</p><p>“You should’ve put the bunny in the box,” Cage said, voice flat. John wanted to snap at him to leave his outdated movie references die, but it was hard to concentrate as it was.</p><p>Cage kept shuffling closer to John, katana ready to cut. Well, it looked cheap. Greg never invests much into fawning tourists. </p><p>Cage swung at him and he barely had time to duck. The katana nicked into a wooden beam supporting the ceiling. Yep. Of all the things - all the possible FUCKING things - Greg had to invest into a REAL katana!</p><p>The actor doll ripped the sword out with ease - <em>fucking curses making everything fucking harder </em>- and John was forced to retreat. All eyes were on them now, though Snow White tried her luck repeatedly. Not to much avail, Irene kicked her in the stomach and the ragdoll fell on her back. </p><p>John advanced closer to the gift shop doors, kicking them open. No one locked these, fortunately. Cage followed him, his footing steadier. The last thing he saw in the museum was Sherlock getting jumped by Aurora, him diving back on the ground and squashing the doll. Oof. At least he led the threat away from the siblings.</p><p>“Once I’m done with you teenagers,” Cage breathed, swinging the sword laboriously, “Greg will return to us again. He always does. He’ll be my friend again.”</p><p>“Listen dude,” John found himself saying. “I’m sorry you’re lonely, but <em>maybe </em>get a therapist?”</p><p>Cage waved the katana at John, but he wasn’t afraid. His mind crystal clear, they danced throughout the gift shop, careful not to break any merchandise items unnecessarily. John had to give it to Cage, he did value what belonged to Greg. </p><p>John managed to lure them to the front yard. </p><p>“Greg is the best therapist I could have!”</p><p>That was true. Contrary to what many tourists believed, Greg had a heart of gold. For his family. And friends. And a few poker pals. When he was winning, of course. </p><p>“Or you could, you know,” John said, licking his lips nervously, “just act like a mature adult and PISS OFF!”</p><p>With an animalistic roar from behind the immobile features, Cage’s temper finally reached its peak. He charged at John, limbs wobbly, the blade of the katana glistering in the light of outside lamps, left and right. John kept the bat ready for self-defense. He was still faster than Cage and the soft body of wool he possessed. </p><p>He spotted the firepit Mrs Hudson had mentioned before she departed. It was close to the main road, flames alight even though dying out slowly as they ate at the last bits of fuel they had. Mrs Hudson surely didn’t expect them to wander out at this hour being chased by maniacal cursed dolls, John imagined. </p><p>He could kick Cage in and let him burn. But. He had a real-ass katana. How can he get around and kick his sorry ass into the pit without sustaining serious injuries?</p><p>He’ll decide on the spot. It worked every time so far. </p><p>John half-jogged over to the pit, Cage too furious to notice he was leading him on. Good. That’s very good. Fucker deserved a stake burning. What was he even on about Greg and his partner and problems? He’s been coming here since he was four, he would know about something like that!</p><p>On the side of his real problem at the present moment, Cage went apeshit over playing cat and mouse. He really didn’t look like his state; some of the stuffing falling out of his  armpits and the poster plastered on the head wrinkling. The curse was definitely spiteful enough to keep him going. Fuck that shaman who made him, at least he got scammed by Greg.</p><p>He knocked the katana out of his way with the bat rather skillfully when Cage managed to get it in his proximity. The two had it at each other for a while, John checking over his shoulder as not to fall into the feeble flames. </p><p>Cage seemed determined to cut John up into pieces for chicken soup. With every miss, his hate grew, his impassive, amused stare somewhat fiery somewhere beneath the poster. </p><p>They made it to the pit. John planned to turn around and put it between the two of them, prompting Cage to hopefully take a leap of faith across it. Just to get the satisfaction of doing the ‘<em><strong>This. Is. Sparta!</strong></em>’ yell and Chuck Norris power kick. </p><p>But.</p><p>He tripped on his own foot. </p><p><em>Fucking amazing</em>. </p><p>That was the thing that passed his mind the split second it happened. He was exposed and vulnerable, Cage preparing to deliver his final assault when -</p><p>The kickstart of a car engine deafened the otherwise peaceful night. The lights lit up, rays laser-sharp focused on John and Cage. God, this must’ve looked comical. Someone behind the wheel honked and the car practically flew at them; John only had so much self-preservation left to gather himself up in time and barrel roll to the side. </p><p>The car rammed into Cage, sending him flying right in the pit, into the flames. The car backed up a few meters and the engine went out. John squinted through the light beams at the driver.</p><p>“Mrs Hudson?” he said disbelievingly. “What…?”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” she waved him off nonchalantly. She was wrapped in a thin cardigan; it was chilly. She walked a few paces back to the backseat and John came to her side of the car to see better. “I’m just getting things sorted out.”</p><p>By sorting out she meant screwing off the cap of a gasoline canister, sniffing it, and pouring its contents into the pit. Straight at Cage’s limp body. </p><p>“Back up,” she patted John’s shoulder, leading them further from the pit for a moment. When she was sure it wouldn’t shoot hellfire at them, they peered in. “How are we feeling, Nicky?”</p><p>“You?” Cage shouted, bewildered. The flames caught onto him nicely. It brought out his features. “How are you still here?!”</p><p>“Forgot my purse again,” is all the upkeeper says, pursing her lips into a bemused line. She took out a matchbox from her pocket and lit match after match, tossing each into the pit. “You should’ve put the bunny in the box, you know. Mr Rabbiarty didn’t deserve to taste your shoes.”</p><p>Cage, lacking classical human anatomy and nervous system, didn’t scream or yell, just glared at them with his badly cropped face that slowly became ashes.</p><p>“Outwitted by a homicidal upkeeper and a teenager who doesn’t know how to fight properly!” he said angrily, his fingers incinerated into burnt fibers. John had an urge to pour more gasoline in. “I’ll come back to haunt you. Both of you! You’ll know what it is to mess with Nicolas Cage! Even Gregory’s mercy won’t help you!”</p><p>“If you come back, I’ll buy more matches, shall I?” Mrs Hudson said in mock-caring tone, the one she would use for dumb tourists. “Or a flamethrower. That’ll be quicker. Don’t you think so, John?”</p><p>John, an unsuspecting spectator of the threats passing back and forth so far, raised his eyebrows. “Can I have a go?” was the only thing he came up with for an answer.</p><p>Mrs Hudson winked at him, a sly smile at her lips conveying ‘<em>Just don’t tell Greg</em>’. Alright. That’s a deal, then. Irene and Sherlock found them in a matter of minutes that they were staring into the flames. Cage was long gone. </p><p>“We got rid of most of them,” Irene breathed heavily, leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder for support. Sherlock leaned into it, similarly tired, lungs expanding in need for oxygen. “Sherlock held them down and I cut their heads and limbs with the garden scissors.”</p><p>“You’d be good at dismembering when you need to kill someone,” Sherlock pointed out, snickering. </p><p>“Bring them out, will you?” Mrs Hudson ordered. She leaned her hips against the pickup truck she drove, tucking a stray strand of hair behind an ear. “I don’t want anymore of those wicked things in the Shack. We’re burning them. We could have s’mores.”</p><p>“Should we take OG, too?” Irene asked, eyes trailing up and down Mrs Hudson to assess her reaction. </p><p>“Yes. Can’t keep any evidence of this disaster behind.”</p><p>“But you made him!”</p><p>“Darling, I can make a rocketship if I want to. The Other Greg had a short, but plentiful time with us in the twenty-seven hours. Who knows what else the cat drags in next.”</p><p>“Alright. I’ll go, you can stay here and help Mrs Hudson with the s’mores,” Irene said, already turning on her heels to jog to the Shack. John moved to follow Mrs Hudson inside from the front, but then stopped abruptly. </p><p>“Sherlock, are you okay?” he asked, worried. John practically grabbed him by the shoulders, careful not to be aggressive with his assessment of his health. He tried to find any traces of hurt and discomfort on the boy, but Sherlock seemed alright. Thank God. “I saw Cage kick you square in the chest, did he make it worse? Anything that feels out of place?”</p><p>“I am, he did, and no, John,” Sherlock answered, though he sounded exhausted. His voice dropped with tiredness, and that sent shivers down John’s spine for some reason. He put his hands over John’s where they rested on his arms and gave him a weak smile. “I am fine. Just tired, that’s all.”</p><p>John knew Mrs Hudson would manage getting the crackers, marshmallows, and chocolates by herself. He sat on the hood of the car, patting a spot besides him for Sherlock to take, which he did. Quite close. So John scooted even closer; it was a bit cold tonight.</p><p>“The deductions were <em>amazing</em>,” he told Sherlock in all honesty. He realised he was dreamily smiling at the fire that grew in the pit. “How you took it all in from the beginning - being stubborn to get it right - granted, you got kicked for it and attacked by Disney princess dolls, but still. A proper detective. It really could only be invented by you.”</p><p>Sherlock was quiet. John got a pang of anxiety. Was this maybe not good to admit? But God, it was mesmerizing, seeing someone else be in their element so much like Sherlock usually was. Sure, he could be bossy, but he went after what he wanted in order to solve the problem that presented itself. </p><p>He risked a glance from the corner of his eyes. Sherlock looked… surprised?</p><p>“That’s… good?” Sherlock said, hesitant. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he nervously gulped in fresh air. </p><p>“Good?” John laughed, good-naturedly. “Sherlock, as I said: it’s freaking amazing. Wonderful. No, there’s a synonym for that that captures it perfectly. It’s supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!”</p><p>“Mary Poppins, John? Really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling now too. A smile special in its own merit - small, but telling and sincere. John fixated on it, on the soft lips that glittered in the light of flames.</p><p>“It fits.”</p><p>“Kind of, yes.”</p><p>None of them cared about the hour. Irene brought out all the doll remains - some of them still moving - and tossed them into the fire instead of logs. Mrs Hudson brought out the s’mores and they munched on the sweetness in peace. It turned out that Mrs Hudson had gone back for her purse as she had told Nicolas Cage. She was feeling restless, so she went to see if the kids were still up for a cup of hot chocolate, and she overheard the confession of what had happened to the Other Greg. </p><p>They burnt him last. </p><p>It was a glorious, tasty, sticky funeral. John was positive that if he ever uttered that sentence in public, they’d sign him into a sanatorium. Mrs Hudson kept up the chatter, Irene joining in. The roasting was done mostly by the two of them, John and Sherlock sitting behind on the hood of the upkeeper’s truck. They munched on the sweet food in silence, licking their fingers clean. </p><p>“Thank you,” he heard Sherlock say. He looked at him, question knitting his brows together. They’d finished another round of s’mores - oh, how John missed this treat while he was in Canada! Sure, you can make it yourself, but it always tastes better in the company of friends. </p><p>“What for?”</p><p>“Saving us from Cage,” Sherlock said quietly as Irene told Mrs Hudson about Homestuck and a character named Rose. “And therefore me. If you hadn’t acted fast enough, he would have gotten me sliced up into pieces.”</p><p>“I would never let that happen, and I never will,” John said adamantly, holding Sherlock’s gaze and hoping to communicate how much he meant it. And there it was again, that feeling of closeness and slight deja vu that he experienced before. The familiarity of this situation, as if they’d had this conversation before. If only John could close the distance and kiss Sherlock…. </p><p>Fuck. He didn’t realise their faces were mere inches from each other. As if on cue, they both smoothly sat back, the night around them covering their blushes. John could swear he saw Sherlock looking at his lips, then his eyes. Could it be….? Or was he just imagining things because his desire for the Brit grew with each day and he was sleep deprived?</p><p>John didn’t fancy to give himself false hopes. He didn’t do flings, never engaged in one-night stands, and had no desire for ‘friends with benefits’ type of relationships. But…. They both studied in Canada, and John didn’t want to stay there after his studies. To be honest, he even considered changing majors from medicine to something else, which would give him more flexibility if he were to move abroad, possibly. He definitely didn’t want to return to that small town he grew up in, his mother’s claws slowly suffocating him with her draining and demanding presence… Difficult decisions lay ahead of him.</p><p>Sherlock, however, erased these worries whenever he was nearby, forcing John’s mind to be focused solely on him thanks to the gracefulness he carried himself around with. He was… amazing. Stunning. Beautiful. And, well… since they were both studying in Toronto…. Would Sherlock, purely hypothetically, of course, maybe, perhaps, <em>mayhaps</em>, agree to, hm, date him? All in a theoretical and hypothetical sense of speaking, naturally. Jesus, now he was babbling to himself. His heart raced at the prospect of becoming something <em>more</em> with Sherlock. He was absolutely taken by the young man like a Japanese schoolgirl. Not that there was anything wrong with that.</p><p>John was usually well versed in social cues, and if his senses didn’t mistake him, an excited prickle ran down his spine at the thought of Sherlock reciprocating his feelings. Where there’s will, there’s a way, and John was positive that if they put their mind to it, they could make a long-distance relationship work if they ever separated after Toronto. And also, they could spend the next summer here in Oregon too.</p><p>Fuck, okay. He was getting <em>way </em>ahead of himself. He hadn’t even asked Sherlock out on a date yet! And he wasn’t even sure if Sherlock felt the same! A sixth sense told him that he did, to a degree. But he couldn’t be sure. What would Sherlock do? </p><p>Deduce! Of course!</p><p>Sitting then and there, John nodded internally. Sherlock was still nearby; he didn’t shift or move away, though he did fix his gaze forward at the two women’s backs. He was worrying his lips absentmindedly, looking strangely vulnerable in the red and orange light. </p><p>John’s heart squeezed at the thought of Sherlock getting injured like he did in the cave a few days back. He will do what Sherlock does best to prove his suspicions (hopefully correctly). <em>Mission: Deduce Sherlock Holmes’ Heart</em> was <strong>on</strong>.</p><p>~</p><p>Irene snuck out of the attic room under the pretense of taking a shower. Sherlock had crashed down onto his bed and fell asleep immediately as soon as they got in, for once, but it was safer not to risk it.</p><p>Mrs Hudson told them not to worry about Greg’s reaction, saying she would take care of it. Bed bugs were her explanation, and they had nothing to argue about. She could be persuasive, so there was no need to worry. </p><p>Irene turned the shower on, closed the door and tiptoed through the hall past John’s bedroom (his snores echoing in the corridor) and down to the ground level. Her reason for this mini heist was to visit Jake. </p><p>And Will Smith, Pocahontas, and the Hulk. </p><p>It turned out that these three were the biggest pacifists from the maniacal doll group. She still couldn’t get over the fact that Nicolas Cage yielded a katana like the Strider brothers, but apparently it didn’t go well for him. Will and Hulk only spectated the fights and later hid behind the displays, as did the mute Pocahontas. Irene found them stabbing Cinderella with the knitting needles when she came back to fetch the limb pieces. </p><p>They explained that they were pretty much forced into submission by Cage (he mentally deprived them repeatedly, usually by his bland speeches and his weird bunny box references among many, many others) and that they didn’t mean any harm. Will was the interpreter as he was the only one capable of speaking. But Hulk had enough vocal cords to at least grunt in agreement. </p><p>So, Irene cut them a deal. They’d sneak out under the porch and would find Jake’s safe spot and wait with him there. Irene thought it a good idea. The racoon was lonely, he could use company. And these three dolls were truly harmless. At least they seemed to be and Irene decided to trust her gut feeling. </p><p>She carefully surpassed the creaky, tender places in the floorboards and got outside on fresh air. She navigated under the porch with a flashlight from her phone; it was easier to find Jake’s place now. Good thing she didn’t have the shower yet, the dirt and dust stuck to her like glue. </p><p>This time she twisted on her butt to fall into the pocket room leg-first and dived in. </p><p>“Irene!” Jake called happily, pawing his way to greet her. He hugged her around the calves, his warm fur soft and silky against her grimy and sweaty skin. </p><p>“Hello, Jake,” Irene smiled, petting him. Jake enjoyed head scratches; his back arched under her fingers that travelled from ears to his pelvis bone. “Where’s the troupe?”</p><p>“Right here!” Smith waved at her from the other end. Hulk dozed off curled into a ball in a nearby corner and Pocahontas leaned on Will’s shoulder. “Good to see you, Irene.”</p><p>“How are you?”</p><p>“Good! Jake is very kind to us,” Will said cheerily. Jake dismissively waved a paw, but Will insisted. “Really, he’s cool. Thank you for letting us walk off.”</p><p>“No problem,” Jake and Irene said in unison. </p><p>“I thought Jake might use the company,” Irene said, sitting down. Jake curled up in her lap, she didn’t protest. Poor bugger was touch starved. Ha, he really was similar to Sherlock, except fluffier. “You don’t have fleas, do you?”</p><p>“I wash two times a day at the pond,” Jake purred, lying belly-up, cherishing her touches. His lids fell, heavy with pleasure. He was <em>adorable </em>in this position. “I’m as clean as a forest animal with a conscious mind can get.”</p><p>“If I get bitten by a bug <em>once </em>I’m taking you to the vet.”</p><p>“What’s a vet?”</p><p>“An ice cream shop.”</p><p>“Ooh, I never had ice cream!”</p><p>“Man, you gotta try it!” Will said, excited by the prospect of a sweet treat. “There are so many flavours! Cookies, kinder bueno, strawberry….”</p><p>He continued naming the different kinds, while Irene absentmindedly petted Jake. She respected his wish for privacy, but it would be easier to visit if she didn’t have to sneak around Sherlock so much. His Majesty and his deduction skills were on high alert nowadays, reinforced by John’s obvious fawning over it. Which was good, but inconvenient. Eh, she’ll manage for Jake’s sake. Until he decides he wants to reveal himself to Sherlock and John, she will respect it. </p><p>“Anyway, Jake,” she said after a while of thinking. “Remember how I hunted you down?”</p><p>“I do. Best day of my life,” Jake stretched out his rear legs. </p><p>“Yes. But we told the tourists the porch is haunted and cashed on it. So I got money to spare. I was thinking I could buy you a bed. Just to make this depressive place a bit cosy. And I could buy toys as well. Or anything you’re interested in.”</p><p>“Really? That would be cool!” Jake beamed at her, baring his teeth in a resemblance of smile. “I saw some people use these weird things for taming their hair - brushes, I think? And also glasses, but the dark ones -”</p><p>“Shades?”</p><p>“That’s it! And also books and devices that can play music and…”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Irene interrupted before it got out of hand. “How about you and Will and the rest make a list? Hold on, you don’t have paper or pen…. Never mind that. I’ll get you some basic stuff and we will figure out from there what we can afford to get you, okay?”</p><p>Jake quieted down and looked at her gloomily. “I don’t know how to read or write, Irene,” he said, his black beetle eyes full of sadness and embarrassment. </p><p>“That’s alright, dog,” Will said, shrugging. Jake tilted his head on Irene’s thigh to look at the doll. “I’ll teach you! It’s easy. But we’ll need a book.”</p><p>“Okay, that’s manageable,” Irene nodded and got up. Jake jumped on all fours. “I’ll get it here as soon as I can, okay? I have to keep an eye out for Sherlock so he doesn’t catch me. Hopefully it will be soon. But now I have to get back up and have a shower, I stink.”</p><p>“You do,” Jake agreed, then winced as he realised how it must’ve sounded. “Sorry. Animal sense of smell, you know.”</p><p>“I’m aware. And I’m glad you’re settling in, Will. Have a good night, guys!”</p><p>“Bye, Miss Adler!” Will waved, but Irene scoffed at his person. </p><p>“Irene is fine, Will,” she said and bent down to pet Jake one last time. “Sleep tight, little bugger.”</p><p>“Bye, Irene,” Jake hugged her shins, sharp nails tickling their underside. </p><p>The clock ticked past three in the morning when Irene settled in her bed in the attic, eyelids heavy, but spirit light and content. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, there we go. Nicolas Cage is gone, but is it forever, or only temporarily?<br/>Only one chapter is remaining of this episode, that one could be a bit surprising... Then we go into ep4, where we'll see another nemesis! Stay tuned, folks~<br/>The boys and their connection? Oh yes, it's moving!<br/>And Irene may be accumulating an army, who knows?</p><p>Next update on the 10th! Oh, and I tested negative for C19, do I'm in a positive mindset~ yay<br/>Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 5. 10. 2020<br/>Word count: 3880<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee (my tamed artisan woman): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. A Study in Clues V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a hint</p><p>episode 3, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, everyone! Last chapter of ep3 is here, ready to mingle. <br/>I'm curious what you'll think of this one, we'll get to see a bit of the bond between John and Greg :)<br/>Thank you all for reading! W're over 360 hits :0 it's alive! this time, I have brownies for everyone! I may drop my recipe one day :D <br/>Hope you enjoy!<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, my culprits &lt;3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Greg returned to the Shack at half past three. It was a successful poker night. He helped Sally beat Riley by observing her tells. He had to fail and lose in the process, but they split the fee when all was done. They made five hundred bucks each tonight. Perfectly balanced, as all business things should be. </p><p>Parking the car in the crunchy driveway, the smell of lingering smoke in the air tickled his nose. Mrs Hudson probably burned the garden waste, then. The pit had coals still hot from the residual heat, as he saw. </p><p>He entered the house and went to check up on the museum. They were supposed to open it tomorrow - er, today - if everything went smoothly. The lights flicked on, and Greg stood, shell-shocked. </p><p>
  <em>The dolls weren’t there. </em>
</p><p>Oi fuck. </p><p>He rushed into the kitchen to check the knife drawer. God forbid the dolls started acting up again. He’ll have to bury the cutlery in the front yard and buy the plastic alternative. He won’t have these shenanigans with the kids around. </p><p>No knife was missing. Huh. Where were the sodding dolls?</p><p>True, he never witnessed them move on their own, though he had an idea of what was happening. But he refused to buy into the curses the tourists wrote about. Sure, the shaman dude in Los Angeles was dodgy, but not enough to ensure Nic Cage went around passing the curse on. Nor did the Disney Princesses he got from that crazy collector lady (stealing was a more suitable word, for the lack of better expression). </p><p>He locked the dolls away for a reason, shortly after… Doesn’t matter, the disappearance happened years ago now. </p><p>But the room they were in served its purpose, and none of them acted up. Until now, it seemed. Fuck. At least he’ll catch them in the act this time around. He was supposed to when the doll display was up a few years ago, but that didn’t go as planned. </p><p>Greg sighed, slowly and exasperatedly. He was getting too old for this. Such was the thing with the Shack. It never ceased to throw deadly, wicked bitches of all shapes and sizes at you. </p><p>He lifted his chin, feeling the handle of the fridge door, fetching himself a fizzy soda drink. A yellow post-it note caught his eye. It was from Mrs Hudson, telling him to call her as soon as he gets home, no matter the hour. </p><p>Greg wasn’t so sure about it, but the upkeeper was adamant about her decisions, so he followed his orders and dialed her number. The call picked up on the second ring. </p><p>“Hudders? What’s the matter?” Greg asked, keeping his voice low. Better not wake up the kids now if there are dolls roaming the house. He scratched the back of his head, thinking of the safety combination from the safe with his net gun. </p><p>“Oh, Greg,” Mrs Hudson sighed pitifully. A warning flared in his mind - don’t reveal much about the dolls. Shit, did she notice? “I’m so sorry, but…”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>“The dolls acted up,” the upkeeper said stiffly. “The kids were with them.”</p><p>“What?!” he barked out, clearing his throat to calm his nerves. No-no-no! “How did that happen?!”</p><p>“No one got hurt,” Mrs Hudson soothed him, her voice barely above a whisper. “They actually dealt with them. Fought them like the fierce warriors they are. Oh, Greg…”</p><p>“They fought them? How?”</p><p>“I must admit they took the creative route. Sherlock and Irene cut them up with my garden scissors, and John took care of Nicolas Cage using a baseball bat to counter his katana swings.”</p><p>“The. What.”</p><p>“Oh, Nicky got a hold of your ancient-Japan katana in the museum you got from that samurai last year. Don’t worry, John escaped unharmed. I rammed Nicky into the fire pit and poured gasoline on that git. I’m, sorry. I know you liked him.”</p><p>“Wait,” Greg said, taking a seat because all this was a bit too much for him to take in at such an ungodly hour. “I never told you about the dolls!”</p><p>“Greg, did you seriously think I didn’t notice when you first employed me?” Mrs Hudson said, clicking her tongue. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. And besides, I know what’s truly going on in this town just like you do.”</p><p>“I know, I know. Sorry,” Greg apologised, rubbing his face. Jesus fuck. Welp. There goes the Doll Conspiracy experiment. At least the Shack had one less burden now. “I’m glad you all managed to be safe. I myself didn’t know what to expect. I was ready to bust out my flamethrower.”</p><p>“Do you know that I am considering buying one as well? There are never enough precautions,” she said, and Greg could hear her sardonic smile through the dial. “Oh, you should’ve seen John and Sherlock…”</p><p>That got his full attention. “What? What happened? Did they -”</p><p>“No,” she cut him off, sadly. “No, but you should’ve seen the looks they kept throwing at each other. Greg, I think they’re falling in love.”</p><p>“Well that doesn’t surprise me,” Greg snorted, albeit just as sadly. It’s been long since he saw John as happy as he was around Sherlock. These two were made for each other, it was a matter of time until they got together… He thought of one particularly troubling problem that pressed on them rather tightly. “And no signs of…?”</p><p>“No. I’m sorry, but none of that. Nothing new indicating any progress,” Hudders sighed. Greg toyed with his car keys that lay on the table in front of him. This was shitty. </p><p>“Well. Thank you, Hudders. I’m sorry you lot had to deal with Nic Cage and the princesses,” he said, scratching his nose. “Fuck. That means that the kids know that I was talking shit about the town’s self-proclaimed mysteries.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about that,” Mrs Hudson said, her voice light and airy. “They want to keep that secret from you. They don’t think you know about this, either.”</p><p>“Ignorance is bliss, huh?”</p><p>“Pretty much.”</p><p>“That’s actually not bad,” he tilted his head from side to side, considering it. Yep, he could work with this to his advantage. “The less they think I know before I work out how to break the curse, the better. I can’t have them be involved with the Club.”</p><p>“Of course not,” Mrs Hudson agreed, and grave silence settled upon them. God forbid the kids got a wind of these weirdos. Greg had enough problems with them as it was. Fuckwits. “But Greg - be careful.”</p><p>Greg knew what other implications the sentence bore. He hummed affirmatively, leaning back in his chair which squealed lazily under his weight. “I will. Oh and Hudders? Take tomorrow - er, today - off. Unwind a little, I don’t want you to wear yourself out.”</p><p>“Thank you, Greg. Are you sure you will manage?”</p><p>“Yes, I’m not completely incompetent, you know?” he laughed into his phone, yawning. “I’ll go to sleep too. Good night.” The line went dead, Mrs Hudson’s chuckle cutting off as they hung up. </p><p>He should go catch a couple hours of sleep before the Shack opens again, but he has to document this. For whom, it doesn’t matter, but it gives him something to do in-between waiting for equations and calculations on the system downstairs to finish, fail, and start anew. </p><p>He carefully slid behind the vending machine and spent the next two hours in the basement. Alone. Downstairs in the chilled caved-in air, he plopped down heavily on a spinning chair whose wheels were sawn off ages ago. </p><p>Greg picked up a walkie-talkie that was connected to a radio, fumbling with its buttons and tiny antennas. The sound of static increased and decreased. Once it clicked, he brought the device up to his mouth. He put his feet up on the steel table, dusty from the dirt ceiling that littered particles from above. His eyes grazed the almost-finished portal in the room in front of him illuminated by artificial lights. He had to hurry up with the construction if he wanted to have it ready at the end of summer, but today he worked plenty. </p><p>He cleared his throat before he spoke into the stream of his walkie-talkie. “Hey. It’s me, Greg.”</p><p>He stopped, gathering his exact thoughts. “I know I haven’t sent you anything for a few weeks, but that’s because the equations took longer to calculate the precise dimension. I have it now, though.” He stopped again, exhaling through his nose. “You seem to be getting closer at last. I bet you thought I wouldn’t be able to make this work, huh?”</p><p>Greg let out a self-deprecating laugh. It didn’t make him feel any better. Maybe even lonelier than he would admit to be, at best. He sighed, bracing himself to continue. “Anyway. Time to fill you in on what has happened in town since my last log. </p><p>“So, Sherlock and Irene arrived. Crazy, I know. And guess what? Today they managed to witness the uprising of our dolls and Nic Cage. John and Mrs Hudson burned him in the pit out in the yard, and no one was injured. I wasn’t at home, though - Sally needed backup playing poker. I thought I’d lure Nic out this time around, but the kids beat me to it. They’re smart, the three of them. And Mrs Hudson is hyperactive as ever, in great health too. God knows we wouldn’t be able to function without that woman.”</p><p>He bit his lips, considering what to reveal next in the walkie-talkie. The recipient would be able to tell something was off - both of them could tell the other was bullshiting ever since they were children. He had to be careful in his choice of words. “John and Sherlock are fine. Besotted and all that, same old. Young love never dies, eh? Irene is bubbly and bright, a very witty young woman. Millie raised her right. </p><p>“Speaking of which, she and Fritz took a trip around the world. That’s why the kids are here in the first place. First time, in fact. I told you before that they study in Toronto like we did, didn’t I? You’ll be proud to hear that both Sherlock and Irene are doing great. Well, Sherlock is blowing up the chemistry labs from time to time, but that’s because he gets bored. Or so I was told by Millie. I warned him not to light any fires inside the Shack, but one never knows with him, eh? He’s just as curious as he was as a kid, apparently.”</p><p>Greg rubbed at his eyes. Tiredness started gnawing at him. He gave way to yet another sigh, his exhaustion giving free leeway to emotions he easily concealed otherwise. “Sorry, uhm… You know, this would be a lot easier if I could hear you back, heh…” He let out a shaky breath, wiping the moisture of his eyes away. He managed to keep his voice even. “I miss you, is all. God, this is like some romcom, isn’t it? Except this isn’t recorded as a voice message, but you should have the live stream of it. Wherever you are. Closer. That’s for sure. I’m thankful for that. Just a few more weeks…”</p><p>He couldn’t stop the incoming tears now, and he sniffed as some heavy weight perched itself on his shoulders, pinning him down to his seat in imaginative but all the more effective paralysis. Good thing he let go of the walkie-talkie button then for a few seconds. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t want you to feel bad. It’s not your fault. And I know I repeat myself every time, but you can be so stubborn - always were - that I have to. Otherwise you’re going to wallow in self-hatred and pity like I do. We’re idiots. Just like John and Sherlock, to be honest. They’re as dense as we were, from an outsider’s perspective. </p><p>“This would really be so much easier if I could hear your reception back, you know? Actually, I don’t even know if you’re getting my transmission… I hope you do. I don’t want you to feel completely alone out there. You know I track you - with the occasional delay - but well. Yeah. I just want you to know that I’m still here, and I’m going to have the portal ready once I get the date calculated. I promise. I’m no Tony Stark but I sure as hell have his diligence.”</p><p>Greg grew quieter, his eyes squeezing shut. His plan <em>had</em> to work out. Fifteen years is what it took to get here, and only death could take this opportunity away from his cold, dead hands. “Mentioning diligence, I have one more thing to mention. The kids now obviously know the town has a lot of mysteries and think I don’t know. Well, I’m going to continue pretending to be dumb and oblivious, because that’s what I do best. Flip the Uno card at them and all that. I’m going to keep my promise and I won’t say anything as we agreed shortly before you…. Yeah. Just…. you don’t have to be worried. I’m keeping an eye out for them. I won’t let anything bad happen to them, not on my watch. </p><p>“Which brings me to John. Mrs Hudson and I talked - two years ago, in fact, so it’s a bit weird to bring it up now, I guess, but it’s complicated - I’m going to propose to him the idea to move in with us. <em>Again</em>. Yeah. We haven’t talked about his family yet since his arrival, but I’ll bring it up soon. I worry about him when he’s in Canada. It’s been getting on his mental health back then, and it came back again. I hate it. I won’t have these scumbags wear him out. Fortunately, he has his mind on Sherlock nowadays. That gives me some relief, but I won’t sit around idly anymore. I know you wouldn’t mind. Thank you for that. Hah, it’s silly, me talking to you like this. I really hope you can hear me.”</p><p>Greg thought about what to say next. Since he was in such a melancholic mood, he may as well sing their favourite songs, adjusted to his liking.</p><p>“<em>This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I’m feeling very still. And I think my spaceship knows which way to go. Tell my husband I love him very much, he knows.</em></p><p>“<em>Ground Control to Major Tom, you’re on your course - direction’s right. Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?</em>” Greg finished singing, the tune being his second nature by now.  “I hope you do. Alright, then. I hope you’re doing well enough for you to come back to us safe and sound. Take care, please. I’ll do my best regarding my own person. Fuck knows that’s difficult. But I’ll make it work. Gotta prove all those wankers I grew up with wrong that I’m not an utter fuckup, heh. Okay, okay - I’ve got to go now or I won’t be able to stop and I’ll annoy you with too much sentiment. I don’t even know what time it is where you are. Night or day? I wish I could know so that I could time it better. It’s night here - or very early morning. Five-twenty.”</p><p>He fumbled around in his chair, rousing himself to a sitting position. His back hurt a bit, strained from the pose he half-lied in. He gripped the walkie-talkie harder, knuckles paling with strain. He wanted to hold onto this only channel of communication he had for as long as he could, but if he doesn’t leave now, it will be marginally more difficult to sneak out once the household wakes up. </p><p>Greg sniffed one last time before mentally shielding himself from the demons that haunted him. “Alright. I’m going, though reluctantly. We owe each other a long-ass bear hug once you get back, remember that.” His mouth froze, and he hesitated for a split second, shaking his head and putting all foolishness behind him. “I love you. I miss you. Take care. I’ll be back soon.”</p><p>He stood up, although he didn’t let go of the walkie-talkie yet. Before he put it to rest, he said, “Goodnight, <em>Captain Redbeard</em>.”</p><p>~</p><p>John yawned into his fist, rinsing his mug in the sink, putting it aside to dry. His eyelids fluttered shut, and he rested his elbows on the kitchen counter, leaning into it. He didn’t sleep much, but he woke up at half past six for some goddamn reason. Four hours of sleep were a luxury during the academic year, but in summer? The amount of deprivation was unholy. Granted, he didn’t regret it because he got to spend time with Sherlock and Irene, but his body could take the hint and crash properly for at least eight hours. </p><p>The rest of the Shack was quiet. The sun rose steadily, stripes of sun rays warming walls opposite of the yellow and blue glass stained windows. John hated it, and he also hated the birds chirping. What were they so happy about? Most of it were mating calls, probably. Not that he wanted to know explicitly what was going on in the forest kingdom. </p><p>Shaking his head out of his tangled, sleepy thoughts, John made another mug of hot coffee. That was meant for Greg - his grunkle was already up and about, cluttering around his office upstairs. John wanted to get the necessary conversation out of the way as soon as possible, and without any interruptions. He knew from Irene Sherlock crashed for hours, sometimes even half a day, when he was exhausted. Given that he was still recovering from his rib injury and that he got kicked by Cage yesterday too, he would stay in bed for a while. Which was good - he needed the rest. And it would mean that there was no way of him accidentally overhearing pieces of conversation and exposing John’s growing infatuation with him. </p><p>Armed with coffee in hand (added sugar and milk just to Greg’s liking), he set out for the office. It was at the end of the hallway on the second floor, opposite of Mrs Hudson’s knitting room. Quite inconspicuous too - the door was partially obscured by a giant plant that stood guard there, leaves shiny and greener than John’s usually very positive outlook on life. He knocked lightly on the hard wood, and opened the door without waiting. </p><p>Greg was sitting in his cushiony spinning chair, feet up on his desk that was covered in papers and envelopes, his head resting on the backrest, mouth hanging open. John snorted at the snoring sounds that escaped his grunkle’s chest, walking over to the desk and making space for the mug of coffee. The ruffling of papers woke Greg up, and the man sat up, startled and squinting at the intruder. </p><p>“John? What time is it?” Greg rasped, coughing to set his voice to normal decibel levels. He rubbed his eyes, back hunched over the desk. John continued putting the papers into neat piles. </p><p>“Seven-something,” he replied. “I woke up half an hour ago. I heard you walking around here when I went down, did you go to bed at all? When did you come back from the poker night? No offense but you look horrible.”</p><p>Greg stayed silent for a while, humming tiredly as his brain caught up and rewired. When he looked up at John, his nephew grimaced. Greg was the embodiment of tiredness. In this light, his greying temples became more pronounced, though it didn’t necessarily make him look older. Just fed up with the world. </p><p>“Have you looked in a mirror recently?” Greg said smugly, leaning back in his chair, yawning loudly, a lot like Chewbaca. “You look like a hobo with that hair sticking out at impossible angles, walking around in nothing but pyjama bottoms.”</p><p>“Speak for yourself, old man. When did you get home?”</p><p>“At four. Helped Sally win against Riley, she went home cussing us out. Pretty good night if you ask me. When did <em>you</em> go to bed?”</p><p>A simple question. Looking at Greg - who squirreled his mug of coffee closer and sipped on the potent ambrosia - there was no double meaning in his expression nor the uttered sentence. Then why was John’s heart racing so fast it felt like it would jump out of his chest this instant? He lied to Greg about the adventure of Gloria Scott, and he had no clue about the pixies. It was too early, though, and he was caught off guard. Greg didn’t seem to notice his hesitation, sipping his coffee leisurely, treasuring the taste on his tongue. His lids were half closed, the steam warming his nostrils and cheeks. </p><p>“After two,” John said truthfully. He leaned his hip against the desk, sitting on it with half of his butt, arms crossed on his chest. He was still in his pyjamas (which, okay, were only pyjama bottoms, but the nights here were hot as <em>fuck</em> - at least he had the decency to put them on, it’s not like he’s walking around in his boxers for God’s sake), but he looked less dishevelled than Greg, who stayed in his crumpled suit trousers and white shirt. His tie laid thrown over the windowsill haphazardly, a bit of the fabric hanging over the edge of the window. </p><p>“Busy with Sherlock and Irene?” Greg asked, slurping on the coffee. There was a faint glimmer of smugness in the crinkles of his dark brown eyes. </p><p>“Yeah, about that….” John huffed out an exasperated breath. How was he supposed to talk about this? He’d never had a talk about relationships with anyone much. Not even when he got together for those few months with his ex, which was fucking awkward later. Not that he didn’t trust Greg, but it never seemed that important. Guys’ talk, however, inevitably found them.</p><p>“Did something happen?” Greg asked, eyeing John carefully, as if to catch a hint of something double-meaning. He stayed silent after, leaving John space to gather his thoughts. </p><p>“Nothing bad,” John said, swallowing hard. Why was he so weirdly emotionally constipated when it came to talking about <em>feelings</em>? Trauma for one, but he could trust Greg. <em>Get on with it, Watson</em>. </p><p>“Did any of you play with open fire inside the house?”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“Then why do you look like you’re on the verge of tearing your hair out? Is your family stressing you out again? I swear to the God they believe in or whoever, I’m breaking their noses this time around if they’re giving you trouble again.”</p><p>“I haven’t even stopped talking to them fully,” John frowned, but brushed it off. He and Greg talked about cutting them off, which would serve them right, but John didn’t take that step yet. He could postpone that decision until September. </p><p>Greg’s brows furrowed alike. He blinked and looked at an unspecified place in the office, muttering as if to remind himself something important, “Of <em>course</em>.”</p><p>“To be honest, I haven’t really given them a second thought since I came here,” John admitted. A distant pang of guilt stabbed him in the ribs, but not as much as he did a few years ago. Greg winced when he said that; he didn’t want to remind John of the ‘idiots’ he had to live with, as Greg often put it. “Nah, don’t blame yourself. I try to put distance between myself and them nowadays.”</p><p>Greg nodded, lost in his own head for a brief moment. He drank some more before sitting up straight, grabbing John lightly by the elbow. “John, I was thinking….” He stood up, circled round the desk and sat next to John. The plank creaked under their joint weight, but neither of them paid it attention. John met Greg’s gaze, the soft, concerned look in his eyes enough to make John anticipate what he would say. </p><p>“I was thinking - and Mrs Hudson agrees - that you should move in with us. It doesn’t do you any good to visit those ‘relatives’ of yours anymore. You’re an adult now, they can’t dictate whether you’re going to live with them or not. They can’t command you like you’re a trained dog. And I’m sick of them emotionally blackmailing you, I won’t stand it. I never did and I won’t now. So, if you want to, the Shack is forever yours to vacate with me and Hudders. It always was, so if there are any nagging thoughts in that smart head of yours, throw them out, because - umpf!”</p><p>Greg’s little heartfelt rant was interrupted by John ramming into him in full force as he locked him in a bear hug, face burrowed in the crumpled fabric on Greg’s shoulder. Large hands closed over him, hugging him back accompanied by small rocking motions from side to side to soothe his nephew. John didn’t cry, but he was damn close to it. He sniffed into Greg’s shoulder, and his uncle rested his cheek against his blond hair. Their hugging position was a little awkward, but neither man cared. </p><p>“Is that a yes?” Greg asked, a humorous tone in his voice to lighten up the atmosphere. John’s embrace tightened around Greg’s shoulders; he couldn’t bring himself to speak yet, not without having his voice break or crack. “It’s alright, John. I mean it.”</p><p>“Why do you keep caring so much about me?” John said quietly into Greg’s shoulder, whose Adam’s apple bobbed up and down where it was pressed against his temple. One hand moved up into his hair and pressed John’s head into his arm.</p><p>“Because you’re my nephew, and I don’t want you to go through the same shit I did. You’re not alone, do know that, John,” Greg replied, rubbing circles into John’s back. “I’m here for you. We’re ohana, which means family, and family means that no one is left behind or forgotten.”</p><p>“Are you seriously quoting Lilo and Stitch to cheer me up?” John chuckled, releasing Greg from his hug. His face was a little flushed, and he still felt like he was on the verge of crying, but also like an unbearable weight was lifted off his shoulders. </p><p>“It’s working, isn’t it?” Greg patted him on both arms. “You love that movie. And also the other one, ah… Treasure Planet and Tangled! Yeah, you love those, too.”</p><p>“You remember?” </p><p>“‘Course I do. You’re important to me, why wouldn’t I know? I practically knew you like the back of my hand since you were four.”</p><p>An invisible, gentle hand squeezed John’s heart. Obviously Greg knew him like no one else. Sherlock was perhaps catching up to him, but that remained to be seen. Not that John had a whim of doubt about the young aspiring detective - quite the opposite, he believed he’d have him worked out rather soon. </p><p>“Thank you, Greg,” John said, hoping to convey enough gratitude in so few words. “I… I’ll consider it. You gave me the weirdest deja vu feeling ever. Like we talked about this before, hah.”</p><p>Greg ran a hand through his greying hair, looking at the floor underneath. “Yeah… Well, you don’t even have to go back there in September before uni starts again. Did you send the application to change your major already?”</p><p>“When did I tell you about it?” John asked, alarmed at Greg’s knowledge of it. Did they talk about this? It was just an idea, a thought John considered even before taking on medicine. </p><p>“April,” Greg swiftly added, walking back behind his desk to fumble with the drawers. He kept talking. “You only mentioned it, but it seemed like a plausible plan to me. You didn’t choose medicine because you wanted to, in the end.”</p><p>John didn’t recall the exact conversation, but he supposed it was true. Where else would he get it from if not John? “Yeah, I’m still thinking about it. I didn’t send anything this year. I’ll do one more year of medicine to see if I see myself as a medical professional and then decide.”</p><p>Greg nodded, lips pressed tightly together. He gulped down the rest of his lukewarm coffee. “If you need anything…”</p><p>“I know, I’ll call you.”</p><p>“Good. Because if any of these bastards try to get you, they’ll have to go through me and Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>“They’ll get the memo.”</p><p>“They better. How about we talk about something that doesn’t piss us off?”</p><p>John suddenly remembered what he wanted to talk to Greg about originally when he came in. He sucked in a deep breath, rubbing his bare forearms vigorously to give himself some courage. “Right, so… There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”</p><p>“Okay…”</p><p>John pinched the bridge of his nose. It shouldn’t be hard to say it. Greg watched him silently without urging or pressing him. <em>Get on with it</em>. “I think I have a crush on Sherlock.” Saying it outloud, his spirit lightened up. It felt good having it out of his system, having pondered over it for the past week. But dread also settled in, and he almost flinched and had to resist looking up at the door in case Sherlock suddenly appeared. Great, paranoia arrived!</p><p>Greg wasn’t surprised. That all-knowing prick. John scowled at his smug grin, flipping him off when he let out a giggle. “And what are we going to do about it?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” John said, frustrated. He dug his hands in his hair, pulling at the short strands. “That’s why I came to you. What do I <em>do</em>? How do I know he likes me back? I mean, we’re getting along fine, but since yesterday I think I saw this weird sort of spark in his eyes and - and…”</p><p>“Hold on,” Greg stopped him, fingers tapping on his knee. “You two are getting along ‘fine’? <em>Fine</em>? Fucking hell, John, you’re both head over heels with each other!”</p><p>John’s cheeks flared up bright red. He stuttered a hesitant answer, and Greg left him splash in the puddle. “I - you - we… Fuck, okay! Fine, whatever. I don’t want to give myself some false hope, alright? Sherlock’s smarter than anyone I know, he’s funny, and his take on things is refreshing and…” </p><p>“Aw, my little nephew is falling in love!” Greg cooed over him, making kissy noises John wanted to flick him in the ear for. “Sorry. Just kidding. But it’s about damn time one of you dorks noticed. You don’t have to worry. He’s head over heels for you as well.”</p><p>“How can you be so sure?”</p><p>Greg opened and closed his mouth. He hummed, tapping at his temple. “I just know. I see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else can see him. Do you plan on asking him out?” </p><p>“I don’t know,” John shrugged. He didn’t get that far with planning his mission to find out the nature of Sherlock’s feelings. “I want to make sure he feels the same way.”</p><p>“That’s reasonable,” Greg agreed, rousing to his feet with a grunt. “At least you’re aware of your side of the feelings, that’s a nice beginning. Do you want me to sneak an answer from him?”</p><p>John vigorously shook his head. “No! Don’t you dare! And besides, I think he’d be onto you even before you’d say anything. If I’ll need help… I’ll come to you again.”</p><p>“That’s enough for me,” Greg hugged him around the shoulders again, departing for his room. “Now shoo, I need my beauty sleep. The Shack’s closed for today since the dolls had bugs in them, and Mrs Hudson has the day off. Do whatever you guys want; just no fire in the house.”</p><p>“Alright. And Greg? Thanks.”</p><p>“Anytime, John.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, that's the sweet ending of episode 3. <br/>Papa Lestrade is always there for you :) If you want to get melancholic, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_M3uw29U1U">here’s a link to Space Oddity by David Bowie, a singer both Greg and I like tremendously - and there will be more of it!</a> As I said, the lyrics up in the fic are a bit adjusted :)<br/>Stay tuned for next episode to see what foe awaits!</p><p>Next update on the 15th! Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3 :3</p><p>Updated: 10.11. 2020<br/>Word count: 5304<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's tumblr (my loyal fanartist): <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. AGRA I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is skepticism</p><p>episode 4, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! New episode is landing aaaand bam. A little play on AGRA coming in :)<br/>We're meeting our.... nemesis. And it's going to be a bit of a mess, but nothing drastic! ;)<br/>Thank you everyone for reading, we'll be shortly over 400 hits and whoooooo! cookies, take them! Stuff yourself! It's good for you~<br/>Hope you enjoy the introductory chapter<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, who are similarly tired of life like I am</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sky above Reichenbach Falls brightly hung over the town and its questionable fauna and flora. Birds sang the Adam’s Family theme song, forest squirrels that mugged beavers roamed in the shadows amok, and naive adolescents from Oklahoma were being scammed by one owner of a <em>mysterious </em>Mystery Shack. </p><p>“However incredible it may sound,” Greg Lestrade said in a low conspiratory voice, “I can guarantee you that your money will disappear after submitting a part of it into this piggy bank!”</p><p>The young, not-so-bright children gasped and reached deep into their pockets to deposit them into the piggy bank. Greg held it out for them, casting sideway glances at the parents buying merch in the gift shop. It was only illegal once someone noticed. Plus, the parents had overrated ideas about their offspring’s intelligence. That meant mo’ money, mo’ profit! And also better retirement. </p><p>Then, as he was about to reveal his ‘magic’ trick, Greg coughed to signal Kate to knock a metal bin over, causing a scene. The kids turned around, alarmed, meanwhile he emptied the piggy bank into his fedora hat (he used it every time for the occasion). Greg zipped up the hidden compartment sewn in and acted natural. </p><p>“See?” he showed the teens the empty piggy, unscrewing it again. “Nothing. It’s like a bottomless pit.”</p><p>“That’s impossible,” a kid maybe of twelve years of age snorted. Lil’ punk. “You’re just a scammer. It’s stupid.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Greg cocked an eyebrow. He put hands on his hips in a challenging manner. “Then how did the money get lost? Hm? Oh, and yet you gave me your pocket money. Define stupid now.”</p><p>A reprimanding cough from Mrs Hudson standing a few meters aside told him to cut it out. Jeez. It’s not like the kids didn’t deserve some mental challenge - God knew schools needed reformation in many places. He was more than happy to play the devil’s advocate, even if they were right. It’s not like it said anywhere they <em>had </em>to put the money in the piggy. Their loss. </p><p>“Fine, whatever,” Greg sighed. He cleared his throat and dissolved the group gathered around him. “Off you go, kids. Your parents are waiting. And I have another tour to get prepared for.”</p><p>“No you don’t,” Kate said, leaning against the wall of the house. She was looking into her pocket mirror, reapplying her favourite red lipstick. She didn’t spare him a single glance. “You said you had enough of them assholes for one day.”</p><p>Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the dropping jaws of mothers leaving the gift shop. Oh, Kate. How her honesty never failed to amaze him. He pushed through the door inside and went to check the register. They made plenty of cash today, despite the fiasco of not opening the doll museum again. On the other hand, it’s not like he even remotely regretted that. Quite the opposite.</p><p>In fact, Mrs Hudson dragged in a bunch of taxidermy parrots that attracted a lot of attention. Apparently the veterinarian at the other side of the Falls - Lily Hooper - was cleaning out her garage and found the pieces. Mrs Hudson grasped the opportunity for quite cheap a price. That is, for free. Lily said the parrots always creeped her out. </p><p>
  <em>Caching! </em>
</p><p>Who knew dead birds brought profit? Hell, he’ll get a taxidermy himself so that the Shack could continue making money even after he died. </p><p>~</p><p>The news reporter, Kitty Riley, smoothed out her costume and fringe. She put on a fake, well-practised smile for the audience as she introduced the newest story on television. A muscular, tanned man accompanied her on the screen. The camera followed her flawless, professional movement smoothly as she stepped closer to the man in question. Her free hand that wasn’t holding the microphone gesticulated nonchalantly to add to her skillful credibility. </p><p>“We are here in the neighbouring town, Madison Prim, to interview the first man to ever have a successful tiger eye transplant,” Kitty Riley announced. Sherlock found her voice annoying, repelling even. </p><p>The cameraman centered the view to include both Kitty Riley and the tiger-eye man. The man was, as Irene would so crudely put it, ripped. His biceps were the size of Sherlock’s head, his skin covered with scars. He was a fighter. </p><p>Kitty Riley continued, “You are known to fight professionally, Mr Ripper. There are rumours some of your vigour is fueled by the tiger eye and it’s giving you exceptional strength. How long have you been fighting professionally?”</p><p>“Twenty years,” said Mr Ripper. His voice was that of a death metalist who consumed additional testosterone and eight dozen eggs for breakfast like Gaston, only rougher. He wore a red bandana over his forehead to soak up the near-constantly generated sweat. “I’ve got the eye from the tiger that invalidated me. Son of a bitch deserved an eye for an eye.”</p><p>“Quite literally,” the woman reporter agreed monotonically. She seemed unfazed by the crude commentary about the (presumably) deceased animal. “So where do you get your motivation and strength to continue even after such a low blow from exotic fauna? Is it the eye of the tiger?”</p><p>Mr Ripper shook his head, his long locks in a ponytail bouncing from side to side. He seized the microphone from Riley and fixed the camera with a death stare. Sherlock felt Irene next to him shiver. </p><p>“It’s the thrill of the fight,” Mr Ripper said seriously. With each grading sentence, he got more frantic and agitated. “Risin’ up to the challenge of our rivals! And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night and I will be watching mine with the eye… of the tiger! Yeah!”</p><p>Mr Ripper threw the microphone on the ground, eliciting a shriek from Kitty Riley. She jerked back from the scattered remains, as did the cameraman. The focus was still on Mr Ripper as he let out a victorious roar, and then he punched himself in the transplanted eye. Then the ads cut in. </p><p>“I swear, Madison Prim is even weirder than us,” John said, plopping down on the sofa. He poured himself a glass of lavender lemonade Mrs Hudson had prepared earlier. “What are we doing today?”</p><p>“I’m reading Homestuck,” Irene said, not looking up from her phone. She clicked the next page and delved back into reading, unperturbed and without a care in the world. </p><p>“I heard about it,” John said, sipping the iced liquid of life. “Is it really worth the long read?”</p><p>“The beginning is slow, kinda, but it gets better,” Irene replied, giggling at a random line. Sherlock peered over her shoulder only to see grey and black creatures yelling at each other. </p><p>“Please, spare John the headache of your questionable hobbies,” Sherlock scoffed at her, flipping a page in the mystery journal. He nudged the boy in question with his elbow. “I have something better. Have you heard of wisps?” </p><p>“You mean wasps?”</p><p>“No, wisps.” He put the journal in John’s lap, underlining a sketch with his forefinger. He carefully and inconspicuously pressed closer to John’s side, butterflies tickling in his stomach. At this point, he wasn’t sure what interactions were his own and which were automated as a natural reaction to John’s presence. “It’s like a ball of lightning. They lead people into swamps under the pretense of guiding them out of the darkest patches in the forest after dark, only to lead them to their grave.”</p><p>“Don’t tell me you want to go try it out?”</p><p>“Well…”</p><p>“Absolutely not, Sherlock,” John said, putting the empty cold glass down on the coffee table. As he leaned back, he threw his left hand over the back of the sofa and Sherlock’s head, settling comfortably around his shoulders. If he leant back, he could rest the back of his neck on John’s soft bicep… “Nothing against swamps or the adventure, but I’m not risking meeting Shrek in real life.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes, though a smile tugging at his lips betrayed the annoyance it was supposed to show. Irene snorted and locked her phone. John’s eyes followed Sherlock as he grabbed it and tried to unlock the screen. He shoved the journal into the coffee table, covering it with a pillow. The pads of his fingers typed on the phone’s keyboard, putting in the password. A frown creased his forehead. Access denied. </p><p>“You changed your pin,” the boy said, biting on his lip thoughtfully. It’s actually great timing - he’ll figure it out in a matter of minutes. </p><p>“No you won’t get it,” Irene said in a singsong tone, teasing him. “It’s something so obvious you won’t guess it until you beg. Twice.”</p><p>“I never beg.”</p><p>“Oh, we’ll see about that. Get your own bloody phone, Holmes.”</p><p>Sherlock ignored her and focused on the phone at hand. John peered over his shoulder. He typed in Irene’s birthday. The pin or password consisted of four digits or four letters. Denied. He typed in her father’s birth date. Denied. He tried Mummy’s. No luck. The phone gave him a cooldown of five minutes.</p><p>“Told you,” Irene eyed him cheekily. Her satisfaction was aggravating. John giggled next to Sherlock’s arm. The temperature in his body had risen by two degrees approximately, not unlike the flush that crept up his neck.</p><p>“You could help me, you know,” Sherlock elbowed him lightly again. It was… risky, venturing into this friendly banter, but he enjoyed it. It wasn’t that obvious, was it? After severe contemplation, harmless bantering equaled nothing bad. He didn’t flirt with John, did he? That topic was still left open for analysis. </p><p>“I thought you’re the genius here,” John said, the sofa cushions dipping under his person as he pressed deeper into them. “After that stunt with Nicolas Cage? If he let you, I’m sure you’d make the revelation clear.”</p><p>Well, he wasn’t wrong. The only thing that bugged Sherlock was that he didn’t know how to get a reaction out of the dolls. But it pleased him that John still marvelled at his deductions, repetitive as the praise got. It didn’t matter when it came from John, Sherlock realised.</p><p>Before he could reply, the volume on the TV went up considerably, the decibels bouncing off the walls, startling them in their seats. John scrambled for the remote to turn it down to tolerable levels.</p><p>“Oh! That’s the weird ad I told you about!” Irene said, pointing at the TV. </p><p>It opened with a close up on a group of teens messing about a trailer park. They were bored and their only fun was kicking drained cans of soda and beer like footballs. Then, a narrator’s voice spoke up.</p><p>“Are you completely bored out of your mind?” - the teens turned to heavens and nodded - “Then you NEED to meet….” - somebody else’s voice whispered:</p><p>
  <em>~Agraaaaaaaaaaaaa~</em>
</p><p>- the screen showed a silhouette of a woman’s profile, hair shoulder-length and her tiny pointy nose was confidently sticking forward. </p><p>“Agra?” Sherlock repeated, ignorant of the barely above whisper grunt John made as he sunk lower into the sofa cushions. The narrator cleared up the confusion. </p><p>“The Absolutely Gorgeous Reichenbach Angel!” he said sweetly, and the music aided the effect using soft piano keys. “She’s the one who listens and helps you deal with your problems - and is also a psychic! Why waste your time with irrefutable conmen living in wacky Shacks? Agra is here! But you can call her Mary.</p><p>“You may plead your innocence and fears for as long as Agra is in town! Worry not! She is ready to help… and waiting for you!”</p><p>The ad ended with one last whisper of <em>~Agraaaaaaaaaaaaa~ </em>and the news coverage resumed.</p><p>“That’s fucking bizarre,” Irene concluded and Sherlock had to agree. </p><p>“She’s obviously a scam.”</p><p>“Ha, I bet. Who even <em>is </em>she? Sounds like daddy’s girl on a high horse, if you ask me.”</p><p>“True,” Sherlock grinned ruefully. “And she claims she’s a psychic. That’s absurd. Maybe if she used deductions like me, she’d get halfway there. Psychic powers are a little too far fetched, even for Reichenbach Falls.”</p><p>“Oi, who’s on a high horse now, Mr Detective?” Irene teased, smacking him with a pillow. “How would you know? Oh, scratch that, I basically answered myself. Smart-arse. But you’re better than that show-off.”</p><p>“I know her,” John peeped, looking at the ceiling. Sherlock and Irene’s eyes locked, horror-struck, and they (Irene) hastily apologised, but John stopped her. “No, I don’t really mind. You’re both right, she is a show-off and likes the drama… She’s also my ex.”</p><p>“Oh <em>shit</em>.” Irene’s jaw dropped, brows skyrocketing up her forehead. “You serious?”</p><p>“Unfortunately,” John said, voice strained and embarrassed. Sherlock made it a point to look anywhere but at him. Something cold stabbed him in the middle of his chest right then and there. Oh no. He didn’t like this sign. “Long story, but we broke up. Haven’t seen her for two years. Not that I mind. Let’s say we had certain artistic differences and parted ways.”</p><p>The atmosphere got a little tense, but after assuring the step-siblings everything was alright, it eased significantly. Sherlock stayed silent for a while longer, turning the new facts in his head. </p><p>So, John had dated this <em>Agra </em>girl. Huh. Well, at least he knew he certainly wouldn’t willingly go to her stupid show now. But… How and why did they start dating? And when exactly? Not that it really mattered, no…</p><p>“Sup, kids, whatcha doin’?” Lestrade busted in, going through a couple mail letters. They muttered a non-committal response. “Cool. Bills, bills. We’re throwing that out. A coupon. Damn, I should pay for that TV insurance. Oh, John - seems like you’ve got old-fashioned mail.”</p><p>He handed his nephew a lilac stained envelope and left to discard the bills. John frowned, turned it around with his fingers as if it were going to bite him. He hesitated and then stuck it out for Sherlock to see. </p><p>“I know who it is from,” he said grimly, but he encouraged Sherlock with a ghost of a smile. “Can you deduce it? You can open it as well. I don’t want to read it yet.”</p><p>Sherlock took the envelope and Irene pressed into his side to get a closer look. “That’s feminine writing,” she said, reading the hand-written address in glitter pen. Correct. The handwriting tilted to the right and had a heavy add-on of those ridiculous swirly lines through her d’s and l’s and y’s. Sherlock thought he’ll get an aneurysm. </p><p>The glittered ink itself was dark blue, contrasting quite nicely on the lilac paper. The female in question must’ve taken up calligraphy lessons, but overdid it immeasurably. Trying too hard. John’s full name - John H. Watson - was written in the middle of the rectangular paper. Personal means, then. </p><p>Sherlock sniffed the paper; a distant smell of cherries and peaches mixed in his nostrils. Not his favourite combination. There was a strand of hair sticking out from under the envelope’s seam. Sherlock carefully retrieved it whole, John and Irene watching him intently, holding their breaths. He tilted the hair up to inspect it - it was originally brown, but was dyed to a lighter colour, dirt blonde. It wasn’t long, possibly cut recently. It could’ve also shed from the head of the sender because of the recent adjustment of hairstyle, but Sherlock wasn’t familiar with how the post office worked here, so he didn’t dare guess how old it was. </p><p>And then there was John’s obvious hesitation and mix of discomfort and embarrassment. Combine it with the ludicrous advertisement and the fact that John had dated this girl - Mary, Agra, whoever - and that she was in town, and his ex… </p><p>“It <em>is</em> from your ex,” Sherlock pronounced confidently to mask his irrational hurt, opening the seam of the letter. He walked both his peers through his process of deduction, taking out a perfumed paper. More peaches. Eugh. He made it pass to John, and he took it, though apprehensively. </p><p>“What’s it saying?” Irene pried, digging elbows in Sherlock’s back to get a peek at it. He wriggled to shake her off, but her pointy bones dug deeper. He gave up, vacating his seat and she immediately occupied it like a ruddy cat. </p><p>“She’s inviting me to her show today,” John said, face scrunched up into an adorable frown. “Says my name is on the whitelist and to bring as many people as I want. Apparently she wants to catch up on our lives or whatever.” He put the letter down and hid his face in his hands. “I mean, I get it. We haven’t seen each other in two years since we broke up. It wasn’t the worst break up, but I don’t want to elaborate on that. Anyway… Ah, to hell with it. Seeing her this once won’t hurt. I won’t be petty over something that happened long ago.”</p><p>Sherlock, who read the letter as John was speaking, added without thinking, “The style of writing and choice of words indicate she may want more than just a regular reconciliation.”</p><p>His arm fell limp against his body, teeth biting into his lip. John watched him with raised eyebrows, his expression unreadable while Irene looked like someone spilled Mommy’s favourite British tea. </p><p>“Sorry, I didn’t mean to -”</p><p>“Well, she can forget that because it’s not gonna happen.”</p><p>They said it at the same time. </p><p>“It won’t?” Sherlock said, dumbfounded. John’s hand shot up to scratch the back of his neck, eyes averted to evaluate a painting with cats chasing dogs on llamas that hung on the wall. What a ridiculous painting. Sherlock wondered where Lestrade stumbled upon such rubbish. He recognised how his question must’ve sounded when he let it sink in. God dammit. </p><p>“No, why should it?” John managed to say. “She was the one who ended the relationship. I don’t feel anything romantic towards her. To be frank, I don’t even want to go to the show, but I guess it won’t hurt to see her this once. She tried to hit me up the year before as well, but I played deaf. Maybe seeing me again will put her off.”</p><p>“Who knows? It’s a small price for entertainment,” Irene said, picking at her nails. She peeked at Sherlock from under her lashes, gaze soft, saying ‘<em>I know what’s going through that head of yours</em>’. “If anything, we can have a good laugh. I don’t know her, but your implications point to her being a little cray-cray.”</p><p>“I didn’t -”</p><p>“John, please. I’m a woman. Even if Sherlock is kicking off his detective career, I still know more than he does in lots of areas, as he’d put it, because women sure as hell aren’t in his field of focus because he’s gayer than frogs snorting tap water. He’s right in this case, though. I mean - just smell the stupid paper! It’s awful. She’s overdoing it. But we will never know for sure until we see her.”</p><p>“Alright, then. But come with me. Both of you.”</p><p>“Sure. We’ll be your guards if needed. God knows I’ve witnessed too many exes getting possessive. But it won’t hurt to give her the benefit of the doubt.”</p><p>Sherlock and Irene, naturally, agreed to accompany John to Mary’s show that evening. John also invited Mrs Hudson along - she could use an evening out on the town. After her shift at the Shack was officially over, she called the teens down. Lestrade kipped on the living room sofa, exhausted from the heat and Central European tourists that refused to buy his lies about a bear-like creature that worked as a gardener for the moles, so they let him be. His conmanship had no bounds. John stuck a post-it note to his forehead stating they’d be back before nine. </p><p>The show was starting at six, ending at seven, and Mrs Hudson promised to take them to the local diner for a piece of pie for dinner after. Who would say no to that? They all had a sweet, sweet tooth. </p><p>Sherlock decided to leave the journal at the Shack. There would be not much use of it tonight. And he almost memorised every page using his Mind Palace, and it’s not like he needed it urgently. The three of them sat in the backseats of Mrs Hudson’s red pickup truck, the step-siblings occupying the window seats, John in the middle. </p><p>After they had seatbelts on, Mrs Hudson drove off, tuning the radio to a station playing cheesy love songs. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the selection; the place where ‘Agra’ was having her show was twenty minutes away. He tapped his phone open, going to his music app. He plugged in his earphones and found his most recent favourite songs from the musical Hamilton - his guilty pleasure. Not many people knew it, but he was a theatre kid at heart, though he never explored this love further formally. Still, this piece of music, although unlikely to match him from the outer perspective, was, as some would put it rightfully so, brilliant. </p><p>‘<em>My Shot</em>’ started playing and Sherlock turned up the volume. Ah, that felt better: blasting his eardrums off. He wriggled in the seat, but it was tricky. He sat behind Mrs Hudson, and she liked to angle her seat backwards so he had little space to maneuver in. His eyes darted from tree to tree, neck turned so that his mind could drift off. </p><p>Despite his vocalisation to Irene that he had no intentions to… what? Date John? Get together with him? There was that tiny, treacherous part of his brain saying that fantasised about scenarios where they did date. And it was… nice. As much as he hated to admit it, this stupid tiny voice kept theorising what it would - <em>could</em> - be like. And it stung. The more he denied it, the more he ached for… a relationship? with John Watson. Plus, the fact that John literally lured a possessed demonic doll embodying Nicolas Cage to save Sherlock and Irene? Yeah, that didn’t help his infatuation. Memories of that night resurfaced, and his stomach fluttered as he recalled the moment when it seemed like John wanted to kiss him. Stupid, that wasn’t possible. Or? God, why were emotions always so <em>confusing</em>? The back of his mind nagged him with a simple word: <em>crush</em>. Fuck. </p><p>But if he were to do it, the pushback at the end of summer would be even more painful. Sure, they both study in the same city, but what if it wouldn’t work outside of Reichenbach Falls? Would their schedules collide, would they meet other people? (Which was, frankly, unlikely for Sherlock.) Sherlock didn’t want to get a taste of something amazing only to lose it forever afterwards. Maybe he will change his conscious mind, but that was under the condition that John would actively reciprocate his feelings, as Irene not-so-bluntly insisted on being the case. </p><p>Which, to be honest, Sherlock would believe, or even did, a little. Until today. And until this… Mary character demanded she see John in all her unknown, suggestively seducing mightiness. What if John decided to give it another go? She didn’t state it, but it was heavily implied she would like him to. Sherlock hoped John didn’t. He did say so, but wasn’t this common in movies that once people saw each other, old feelings resurfaced? Why did he agree to come to the show if he were to witness the ex-reconciliation? Hell, he considered praying to any entity that would listen not to let these two start a relationship again… </p><p>It probably wasn’t healthy, but as he listened to the encouraging <em>‘I am not throwing away my shot!’</em>, Sherlock couldn’t care less about his intentions. God, deep down he knew he was throwing away his very own shot when his rational mind refused the pull of his inner instincts. But would a relationship with John ever be possible? He could be straight all this time and Sherlock might have assumed wrongly, whatever Irene’s self-assured <em>gaydar</em> said. He had to sleep on this, but perhaps it was too late.</p><p>His fingers tapped to the rhythm of the song against his knee and he felt someone shake him by the shoulder. </p><p>“What are you listening to?” John said after he’d taken his right earplug out. “You’re going to be deaf before we even arrive at the show.”</p><p>“Just some music,” Sherlock replied evasively. He didn’t like advertising that he listened to musicals. The reactions differed; some people laughed, some criticised, others heard of no such thing.  Upon John’s honest and curious gaze, though, he elaborated. “Uhm, it’s called Hamilton. A Broadway musical from twenty-sixteen, I think. Or ‘fifteen, I don’t keep up with that. It’s about how the Founding Fathers established America, and the life of Hamilton.”</p><p>“I think I heard of it,” John said, nodding, crossing arms across his chest. “Never listened to it, though. Nothing from Broadway, to be honest.”</p><p>“Here, have this earbud,” Sherlock offered without thinking, deliberately not noticing John’s head leaned in closer due to the short length of the cable. “It’s surprisingly good. Miranda, the man who wrote it, is a genius in his own way. It’s a mix of the classical Broadway you get, plus rap.”</p><p>Sherlock sorted out his settings from shuffle to the original order. They had about six more minutes to spare with the red lights on the Main Street, perfect for playing the first introductory song <em>‘Alexander Hamilton’</em>. </p><p>“It may not be to your liking,” Sherlock warned, sparing a look at John, who raised an eyebrow in a ‘oh please’ sort of way. “But I hope you’ll appreciate the wit of it.”</p><p>They listened through the engine sounds and breeze grazing by the window, the sun setting, painting the sky in purples, blues, and pinks. Sherlock focused on the lyrics, the chorus, and the collective power of the original cast’s voices. When the last of violins dramatically ended the song, Sherlock retrieved the earbud and tucked his phone in his pocket, awaiting the verdict.</p><p>“It’s actually pretty good.”</p><p>He smiled inwardly and hummed in agreement. “I was also pleasantly surprised when I discovered it a year ago. Never saw the show live, but this is enough as it is.”</p><p>“Do you listen to other musicals too?” </p><p>“Yes, but this is my obsession, as Irene would put it,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at his step-sister that was currently swallowed by a webcomic with grey trolls. “Not that she has the right to comment, what with her mess of a multiverse or whatever it is.”</p><p>“I heard you, you know,” Irene said, smirking. She zoomed in on a panel and started laughing. “And you have no idea, wait until I tell you about the author’s horse kink.”</p><p>“Well,” John said as Mrs Hudson pulled over to a parking lot. “You better send me a link to the whole soundtrack, I want to listen to all of it.” He bumped their shoulders, the left side of his lips tilting up, blond lashes fluttering, as did Sherlock’s stomach. Here was the closeness again, the comfort, the peace that quietened every doubt and insecurity that arose in Sherlock’s mind.</p><p>And just like that, John Watson temporarily erased the uneasiness of Sherlock’s mind regarding the current subject at hand: <em>Agra</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, yes. I'm serving y'all some dinner/lunch/breakfast, with a side of angst and insecure Sherlock. Worry not! Our matchmaker is right on it, but first we have to see the literal circus that this Agra is... </p><p>Which will be on the 20th! :3</p><p>Stay tuned folks~ Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 15.11. 2020<br/>Word count: 4555<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Bee's artistic tumblr full of wonders: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. AGRA II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a show</p><p>episode 4, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sup!! I'm back with chapter 2 of Agra, where Mary shows off her skills, moves, and hints!<br/>Thank you for reading, we're over 400 hits, this is incredible &lt;3 today I have for you cherry, blueberry, or apple pies!<br/>Also, my heart goes out to the SPN fans. I'm rewatching s1 right now, but for the sake of this fic as I planned before I'll stick with the first *4 or 5 seasons, then it's canon divergence. Plot reasons. My Destiel? Guys, they'll be on the gay frequency of my Johnlock. I know in episode 2 I mentioned an event from probably season 6-ish, but this is fanfiction, why give a damn about that now? Details :D I'll smooth things over (canon divergence yo), but more on that later!<br/>[update: actually, feel free to ignore this because I'm still tailoring this down, so don't take what I say here as the Word of God (in this case, me, the god of this fic)]<br/>I hope you enjoy this chapter!<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, my memesters (yes we have memes for this fic already, heh, but only in our groupchat so far)</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mrs Hudson parked her car on the curb a bit off to the side of the Tent of Telepathy, an obnoxious structure that obscured the view in the worst way possible. John’s stomach dropped, a dead weight pinning him to the spot. Suddenly, he regretted his decision to come here. But he did not want to be petty -- he and Mary broke up a long time ago, why hold grudges? The least he could do was accept her invitation and see her this once. </p><p>And if she wanted to get back together? Well, in that case, too bad. John’s interest currently held a gorgeous Brit sitting next to him. Speaking of which, said Brit unbuckled his seat belt, arm brushing against John’s as he opened the door on his side and got out to stretch his legs. John shuffled out right after, Irene poking him to be faster. People gathered in a long line on the other side of the street, waiting to get inside the giant ominous tent looming over them.</p><p>“Good thing we’re on a whitelist,” Irene said, whistling at the sight. Mrs Hudson locked the car, padlocks inside clicking shut in unison. “Seems like your ex is pretty popular.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson’s forehead crinkled, and she shot Irene a confused look before her face smoothed out. She checked the contents of her purse, clearing her throat. “I suppose we should go, then. These people are crazy when it comes to entertainment. They’re like a stampede.”</p><p>“That’s not surprising,” Sherlock’s baritone rose over the loud murmur of the crowd as they crossed the street. “The mob mentality is fascinating, but inconvenient to experience in real life.”</p><p>“Sherlock’s still salty over that Black Friday fiasco that happened last year in Toronto,” Irene snickered, ducking away from her brother who reached to flick her in the ear. John walked two steps behind them, witnessing their banter with a smile quirking his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re not! You wanted that mug with kittens for ages!”</p><p>“It wasn’t kittens!”</p><p>“Wait,” said John, careful not to trip on the sidewalk. The three of them turned and looked at him. “I remember that! Jeez, people were at each other’s neck.”</p><p>“What happened?” Mrs Hudson asked, mild concern in her voice as she clutched her purse tighter. </p><p>“Ah, the university had sales going on between departments and people went crazy,” John explained. The memory of that day was somewhat frizzy like static, unclear in its details, but John remembered that he felt amused by the whole ordeal, if a little paranoid that girls studying archeology and economists were going to lynch him for taking up space outside of the circus called ‘sales’. “I was there with…. Uh, two other people, I think. Lost them for a while but they also went to buy some unique mugs. I got a sombrero out of it, though we had to run in the end. Uni students are animals.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted at that, dipping his head as Irene elbowed him. “He’s right, you know. In the first month alone I’ve seen a med student chug a bottle of coffee he allegedly mixed not with milk, but redbull.”</p><p>“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson gasped, horrified by young people’s diet in this century. “Is he alright now?”</p><p>“No idea. I never cared to ask.”</p><p>Both Mrs Hudson and Irene swatted him, but he looked to John for approval. Which, to be honest, he gave him, grinning like a fool. This shit was hilarious, and Sherlock had a point. “I think I met him. Tryharder, that guy. Always has straight A’s on tests.”</p><p>“Good thing I’m studying fashion,” Irene said, pursing her lips and whirling on the balls of her feet to push through the crowd. “Excuse me! Your future designer is coming through! Make way unless you want me to go full Sharpay on you!”</p><p>They managed to get inside among the first twenty people. John didn’t want to be exposed right in front of Mary, so he had them take a seat approximately in the middle of the rows of chairs. Minute by minute, the tent filled up by dozens of pairs of feet, shielding the Mystery Shack group from the prime view of the stage. </p><p>John sat next to Sherlock, whose intelligent eyes roamed across the audience, undoubtedly taking in numerous clues about the personal lives of strangers. John nudged him with his elbow, smiling up at him. “Anything interesting?”</p><p>“Still observing,” Sherlock told him apologetically. “But a couple people are on the verge of breaking up, if you notice. Half the guys here are simpering over Agra, and their girlfriends don’t like it.”</p><p>“Simps? Simps?!” Irene repeated loudly, causing a couple guys around them shift uncomfortably where they sat, their girlfriends smirking knowingly. One girl even shouted ‘I <em>knew </em>it! Derek, you’re such a whore!’ That made them burst out laughing, and John leaned into Sherlock before he even realised it. But sooner than he could see Sherlock’s reaction, the lights dimmed, and the show started. (This was not the best way to figure out what Sherlock felt, of course not, but what else could he do? On top of everything, he was distracted by his ex, though he didn’t want to let that get into the way of his current infatuation.)</p><p>The sharp beam of the limelight lit up the whole podium. People in the audience clapped their mouths shut and held their breaths in anticipation. The curtain elegantly rolled off to the side to reveal an empty stage, left for the artificial smoke to aid the ‘mysterious’ atmosphere. </p><p>And then, a mechanical sound of trap doors sliding open and a platform rising up showed a young, slim woman in a pose, a wide smile on her face, one hand in a white glove on her hip. She was wearing a pink dress that fit her curves, but not too revealing, salmon pink heels to complement the dress and a pristine pearl necklace around her neck. </p><p>From an objective point of view, Agra -- Mary -- was stunning, her blonde hair done in a tight bun, no stray hair disarraying the picture perfect image of her flawlessness. And oh, how some guys around John <em>swooned </em>when they saw her. If he didn’t know better, John would probably join their fawning. But she no longer held him with the practised charm, oh no. Maybe she never did in the first place. </p><p>“Ugh, I hate that colour,” Irene uttered, completely put off by Mary’s fashion choice. John snorted at that. Yeah, it wasn’t to his taste either. “It doesn’t suit her one bit.”</p><p>People cheered Agra on, and she giggled into her microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in her accent, still grinning. “It is <em>such </em>a privilege to have y’all here tonight!”</p><p>“She’s from Texas?” Irene said to John incredulously. He shrugged. Not that it ever mattered. Actually, she had a clear, universal American accent outside of her job. </p><p>“It’s fake for the show,” he replied.</p><p>Mary went on, lengthening her vowels for emphasis. “It’s been a <em>long time </em>since I was back home in Reichenbach Falls. Hihi, I couldn’t wait to see y’all again!” The audience aw’d and John cringed. God, this was sweet-talking. Why aw at that? He knew Mary, she never meant it. She only did it for the money ever since she realised what was in her career and what influence she had. </p><p>“Oh stop, it, y’all. You know I’ll forever love you!” A round of applause. “Save your admiration for later. But…. oh!” The people hitched up a breath as well. Mary’s head turned from person to person, looking for one in particular. John slid lower in his seat. Mary touched her temple with two fingers.. “I think…. Yes, I have a vision! Oh my, you’ll never have seen something so adorable as… This!”</p><p>She snapped her fingers and out of nowhere (hint: from above) a flock of ducklings descended onto the stage attached to tiny makeshift parachutes, quacking unknowingly and happily. The audience lost it. Every female, safe for Irene and Mrs Hudson, shed a tear at the cute sight. Some men, too, and one or two even yelled ‘I’ll freakin’ kill to keep these babies safe!’ -- it was Mr Ripper from the neighbouring town Madison Prim. He punched the eye of the tiger again from the pent-up excitement. </p><p>“Well, it came true,” Mrs Hudson said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. She sat one seat over next to Sherlock, closest to the aisle. They were currently in a giant pink tent thematically lit up with fairy lights and John felt like he was at Professor Umbridge’s office, minus the cats, thankfully. That wouldn’t end well for the ducklings. </p><p>Sherlock stifled his laugh next to John, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the character of Mary. “If these are her psychic powers then I’m the Queen of England.”</p><p>“Oi, blasphemy!” John poked him in the ribs, grinning. Sherlock grinned back, and for the first time in the evening he felt warm. Nicely warm, not as in it’s-summer-and-places-that-shouldn’t-are-sweating warm. “You’re not impressed, Detective?”</p><p>“Not one bit.”</p><p>“Good. Neither am I, to be honest.”</p><p>“I could do better tricks without much fuss,” Sherlock said, head tilted closer for John to hear as he slouched in his seat. “Oh! I have a vision…. <em>Yes</em>, I predict that this show is going to be incredibly <em>boring</em>!”</p><p>“Boys!” Mrs Hudson’s hush reprimanded their giggles, though her smirk betrayed her strict tone. “Try to behave.”</p><p>Mary’s voice got through to them again, her fakeness ticking John off just a tiny bit like an alarm. Everyone else besides the four of them seemed to be oblivious to it. He couldn’t blame them, Mary had time to practise genuinity on stage since the age of ten, when her grandpa took her to an international talent show and she’d won. Mary’s career took off that same day. </p><p>As if on cue, Mary commanded her elderly grandpa to hit the piano, and a couple of supporting musicians joined with a guitar, a trumpet, and drums. </p><p>“I think it’s about time to greet y’all properly!” Mary exclaimed and people started clapping along the rhythm of the music. “Silly old me to put it off for so long!”</p><p>She took off her white gloves and tossed them to the front row. Three guys too eager for it got into a fist fight over them. And Mary had finally spotted John, for she winked at him and although he felt uneasiness set in, he pursed his lips and formally nodded in acknowledgement. </p><p>Mary began singing to a catchy tune the musicians dished out.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, I perceive, what y’all can’t believe</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It ain’t some sideshow trick, and not scurrility</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where others are blind, I see fates intertwined</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And you too could see, if you was silly ol’ me!</em>
</p><p>She clutched her pearl necklace with her left hand, and motioned people with her right to stand up, which they did with eerie synchronicity. “C’mon, y’all! Shake it up!”</p><p>The crowd cheered. John frowned and exchanged a glance with similarly confused Irene. Mrs Hudson seemed to enjoy the tune and didn’t mind her getting up. But how they did it in unison and seemingly unintentionally eluded John.</p><p>“How did she -” Sherlock began, looking back to his seat, only to be silenced by Mary’s voice again. “I didn’t consent to this!”</p><p>“Keep it goin’, everyone!” </p><p>She sang some more, pointing at people and telling them things that were, apparently, true about them. Her bared fingers distraitly played with her pearl necklace as her gaze swept through the audience. One lady was spending the money she had won in a lottery on McDonald’s food (John saw Sherlock’s expression grow sour; to him it was obvious straight away by the subtle stains on her gown and fingers and the distinctive fast food smell), another man was said to have visited before (that was obvious even to John, the man had every piece of merch bought and signed by Mary personally), and lastly, Mary descended among the crowd to shake their hands. </p><p>She came to where John and the rest were standing, laughing giddily. She put a hand over Mrs Hudson’s, singing, “Something tells me your name’s Martha!” And she moved on, with another wink aimed at John. He shuddered when she turned her back to them. </p><p>Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes, saying, “Is it? My, I’ve got to tell my mother!”</p><p>This went on for the rest of her gig until she came back on stage ending it with a wail of <em>‘Silly ol’ meeeeeeee!’</em> and the audience applauded for five minutes. During the rest of the show, John, Sherlock and Irene had to sit through Mary listening to people’s problems, sorting them out. This irritated Sherlock greatly, because he kept firing off deductions he’d made from what they were saying and their appearance if he was able to see them. Sherlock wasn’t too confident with them at first, but his assumptions turned out to be true in eighty percent of the cases. But then his foul mood resurfaced when Mary’s sympathies filled the air as she gave out advice to people going through breakups, those who had unreciprocated feelings, and so on. </p><p>John tuned her out for most of the show. Despite the no-hard-feelings he had, he still felt a bit queasy, seeing her back in the Falls. He did not want to put up with his past right now, not when things were good for once.</p><p>After the show (<em>finally</em>) ended, Mary again touched her pearl necklace and shifted her weight to one leg as she coquettishly waved everyone off, gaze following them outside. As John got up, he saw her mouth ‘Wait for me!’, jerking her head to the side. He sighed, pursed his lips and obeyed. Just this awful small talk, and then home. </p><p>“Should we wait outside?” Irene asked, a worrying glance running John up and down. Was his discomfort that obvious?</p><p>“You don’t have to,” John said, relief spreading inside his body when she and Sherlock nodded. Moral support, he was grateful. </p><p>Mrs Hudson left for the car; her hip started hurting again because of the strange chairs. The car would allegedly ease it for the time being, she said, whipping out her phone to call her sister. John mentally prepared for the encounter under Irene’s scrutiny and Sherlock’s indifference. Speaking of which, the London boy was oddly silent. Even his deductions, which were amazing and brilliant as every time even if not one-hundred percent correct (he’s a detective in training, after all) seemed to bring him less happiness and enthusiasm than usual. </p><p>“One of us can act as your date, you know,” Irene suggested matter-of-factly, as though this was a regular occurrence for her. Sherlock’s neck snapped to glare at her, while John was less mortified than he probably should have been. </p><p>She said ‘one of us’, and although it would serve Mary right to see him with a girlfriend, he was more inclined to show off Sherlock to her, if that were to be the case. The mere thought of having Sherlock even fake dating him sent electricity down his spine. A stab of panic woke him up from the initial state of daydreaming that, and he shook his head. He wouldn’t be able to only pretend without begging for more afterwards.</p><p>“I appreciate it, and I’d consider it, but I don’t like lying,” John said, voice hoarse. <em>Not yet</em>. He cleared his throat, Sherlock staring up at the ceiling of the obnoxiously pastel tent. Truly, he was uncharacteristically silent today. </p><p>Irene pursed her lips, shrugging. “As you wish. But my offer expired, I’ll leave fake dating to Sherlock.”</p><p>John thought he saw him blush for a split second before he tapped away on his phone, cursing her under his breath. <em>Interesting</em>.</p><p>“John!” </p><p><em>Ah, shit</em>, he thought. He put on a fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he turned on his feet to greet her. Mary met him in a hug with such force he staggered back a bit. He awkwardly patted her on the back, thinking it disconcerting. </p><p>“Hi, Mary,” he managed to say after she pulled back. She looked…. fine, he guessed. There was still this imaginative halo of sparkles around her scintillating from her, thanks to her lively energy. John knew it well, she charmed a lot of people with it, but it didn’t work on him anymore. Not much. Hell, did it ever? “Erm, good show.”</p><p>“Thanks!” she grinned, hands on John’s arms, keeping him in place. He felt cornered and cramped and claustrophobic. Like a caught prey about to die. “I’m so glad you came! I wondered after you didn’t last year whether you’re alright.”</p><p>“I’m great, no worries,” John reassured her. She could really let go of him now. Instead, she kept watching him like a hawk, her smile big and frozen. He jerked his head at Irene and Sherlock behind them in hopes of diverting her attention. “Uhm, can I introduce you? That’s Irene and Sherlock, my friends. They came over for the summer.”</p><p>Mary’s hands fell besides her body. Freedom! But there was something forced about her smile now. She regarded them both with a <em>‘Hello and welcome!’</em> and then turned back to John, completely ignoring the siblings. </p><p>“Listen, John,” she started, her eyes softening, head tilting. A finger intertwined into a stray strand of hair that got loose during the show and she let out this flirtatious giggle. “I know we haven’t parted on the bestest of terms…. But I’d like us to maybe start afresh?”</p><p>John had the sudden urge to go full Michael Scott and say, <em>‘No. Nope. Nope. No. No. Never, ever. No. No, no, no, no, God please no. No!’ </em>but that would be rude. Nope, he really had no desire to get mixed with Mary and her drama again. He was nothing but a toy to her two years ago, and people didn’t change as much as they claimed. He knew inside she wouldn’t contact him out of the blue for some friend business if she hadn’t her own plans. And Sherlock and Irene were right, too. </p><p>He still remembered the day Mary phoned him to meet up at the fancy restaurant on Empty Hearse Street, back when it was decorated in its old, spacious-airport-restaurant style. Things were rocky already between them, and he himself weighed the option of breaking up. They did long-distance for a few months, come to that, but it was more about their mutual chemistry what bothered him. Mary was… too intense, from what he recalled. Too pushy. Too demanding.</p><p>And as he had stepped into the restaurant, he knew it was over the moment he saw her sitting next to the town’s rich boy, Sebastian Moran. His Prickness, as Greg and John called him, watched him approach the table they were seated at as though John were a peasant begging for mercy. He may have been right about the peasant part, but John begging? Mary and Moran? Never. Death before surrender. </p><p>Mary had noticed him then, too, smiling impishly. John managed to keep his cool throughout her speech about how the two of them should try to have an open relationship, meet new people, but return to be together later. Which, thinking back to it, was the simple most awkward and stupid thing anyone has ever said to him. To even <em>suggest</em> that! When Mary was well aware that John’s preference was strictly monogamous…. </p><p>Right, okay. He had deemed their relationship over after their over-the-phone argument from the day prior anyway. John thought they could be more mature about it, like adults (as much as eighteen-year-olds could be) but Mary had chosen the ‘extra’ route, because an impoverished medical student wasn’t enough for her in spite of being friends for years at that point. And Moran’s tires bore the consequences of that. Hah. </p><p>And although John was hurt more about the fact that she didn’t have the guts to break up ‘properly’ before she had found another prawn for herself, he was surprised how he felt weirdly wounded even at this moment. Well, he never favoured liars in the first place. So why would she want to date him again?</p><p>But now… Mary gave him enough room to tailor the situation to his intentions. And those were merely a trifle above friendly. </p><p>“Start over as friends? I could do that,” he said, high-fiving himself internally. Mary’s face fell ever so slightly before her mask of nonchalance was back on. Small victories.</p><p>“Of course! Just friends is fine, I was hoping for it,” she said, fingers caressing the pearl necklace. John put hands in his pockets, a wave of sweat prickling at the top of his head. “I thought maybe I could invite you for a friendly dinner? On me. I owe you that much. I’d like to apologise properly. Talk over what… happened.”</p><p>“Dinner? Where?” John asked, taking one step back under the pretense of shifting his weight. </p><p>“I was thinking Speedy’s? The owner upgraded the building, it looks better now.”</p><p>“More prestige to your standards, you mean.”</p><p>“Yes, exactly. So, will you come? It’s just a friendly dinner. I’m curious what’s new in your life,” she said mildly, eyes darting minutely to Sherlock and Irene. John wasn’t sure he wanted to see their reaction to this mess. “You know, university life and all that.”</p><p>John took a deep breath, held it, and released it haggardly. If it will make her satisfied and she doesn’t try to push the wrong buttons, it is perhaps alright. “Okay,” he said and Mary beamed. </p><p>“Excellent! Be there at seven P.M. sharp,” she instructed, her heels clicking against the floor. She waved at Sherlock and Irene, though detached. “It was nice meeting you! Hope you enjoy the rest of your summer here.”</p><p>She disappeared outside, and soon the three teens followed out and into Mrs Hudson’s awaiting truck. The radio played <em>‘Last Christmas’</em> by Wham for some reason. Sherlock and Irene stayed silent, probably feeling John’s unwillingness to discuss it. God, the weirdness shot through the roof.</p><p>John dreaded tomorrow already. Thankfully, as though reading his mind, Sherlock elbowed him and offered him an earbud. “Want more Hamilton?” There was a distant, hopeful look in his eyes John could never say no to. His irises were greyish blue in this lightning.</p><p>“God yes, give it here.”</p><p>Not long after ‘<em>Helpless</em>’ ended - kind of thematic, though John could only wish to deal with his true romantic turmoil, not a sour has-been relationship - they found themselves in front of the local diner: Angelo’s. John loved this place; an Italian-American man - Angelo - owned it, and he and his staff (him and his three waiters working shifts) served the most delicious food in Reichenbach Falls. Speedy used to be right behind Angelo’s, but ever since they expanded from a simple coffee shop to a restaurant, they fell behind on quality. But at least they kept the original coffee shop - John sometimes bought Greg cappuccinos there. Those never failed. </p><p>“Wait until you taste Angelo’s apple pie,” Mrs Hudson told the siblings as they hurled outside on the pavement. </p><p>“Everything here tastes divine,” John concurred, putting his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to lead him on towards the diner. His quietness concerned John the more he noticed it, an worrisome emotion settling in his guts. What was wrong? “But their lasagna here is also praise-worthy.”</p><p>“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me,” Irene said, rubbing her belly for emphasis. John held the door open for them, letting them close on their own when everyone got inside. </p><p>The diner was small; red and brown old-fashioned stalls for seating made up one whole half of the building. Delicious aromas and smells floated in the air, waiting to be inhaled by the customers. John gleefully observed the siblings take it in, losing themselves in the abundant heaven that was Angelo’s. </p><p>Almost empty, there were only three other customers in the diner, two of them perched behind the bar. Angelo’s had a retro look about it; an old jukebox stood in the left corner, above which a fishnet with old-timey pictures hung loosely. The right side of the diner was mostly lit by fairy lights and candles, each table having its own set. A couple of framed pictures hung above the bar too, most of them articles from newspapers that brought up Angelo’s cooking skills, others being faded diplomas -- also awarded to Angelo. </p><p>John slid into one of the stalls in the far back, Sherlock settling opposite of him. Irene sat down next to John, and Mrs Hudson took a seat next to Sherlock. She handed the siblings the menu that she grabbed from a nearby table. John didn’t need it, he practically had every item on the menu memorised. </p><p>“Choose whatever you want, of course,” the upkeeper told them, eagerly awaiting their responses. She and John exchanged a knowing smile. “The pie is only a suggestion.”</p><p>“I’ll have a piece of the cherry pie,” Irene said, putting her menu down. </p><p>“Blueberry for me,” Sherlock decided, handing Mrs Hudson the card as she stood up to go order. She didn’t need to ask John, he also loved the blueberry deliciousness, but his absolute favourite was Angelo’s apple pie. Sherlock, however, didn’t know this. “Wait -- what about John?”</p><p>“Oh, he always gets the same pie,” Mrs Hudson replied off-handedly and vanished to the front of the diner. John was surprised that Angelo didn’t burst out of the kitchen, it’s his custom, or rather sixth sense, that whenever John, Greg, or Mrs Hudson come in, he greets them personally. Perhaps he is busy preparing takeaway. </p><p>Irene side-eyed John, then Sherlock, and when the former turned his neck to look at his crush (this sounded surreal), he caught a glimpse of sadness in Sherlock’s features. Did he miss something? He almost voiced his question when his phone rang. A notification displayed on the screen -- he completely forgot about this!</p><p>“Sherlock look -- it’s from Sam and Dean!” he said, his thumb sliding over the smooth screen to open the phone. He leaned on his elbows so that his friend could see the message. Sam sent him a selfie of him and Dean, both men posing in sunglasses and cotton candy in hand. Behind their backs, the famous Disney castle stood guard. </p><p>“When did you get their number?” Sherlock asked, taking John’s phone, their fingers brushing lightly. John suppressed the need to intertwine them and squeeze reassuringly. Whatever troubled Sherlock, he wanted to wipe from existence. </p><p>“When they drove us back to the Shack,” John said. “Sam wants to stay in touch since they’ll be coming back after they’re done with their exorcism journey.”</p><p>An adorable frown formed on Sherlock’s forehead. “I don’t remember that.”</p><p>“No, you were asleep on my shoulder.” Sherlock shifted his attention fully to the selfie that framed John’s phone screen. Irene muttered something John didn’t quite catch. “But anyway, I friended him on facebook, so I have him in my contacts. I actually forgot we did this. Good thing Sam reached out like this.”</p><p>“I want to see the hot guys too!” Irene complained, snatching the phone from unsuspecting Sherlock. She was so fast he blinked once and then he stared at his empty palm. Irene clicked her tongue as she looked the Winchester brothers over. “Who is who?” </p><p>“Tall guy, long hair -- that’s Sam,” John explained, pointing at him. Both brothers were wearing flannel shirts with sleeves rolled up. “Shorter guy is Dean. He’s the older brother.”</p><p>“My lesbian eyes rate them as objectively hot.”</p><p>“Thank you for your very important, yet absolutely uncalled for insight, Irene,” Sherlock said dully. Irene glared daggers at him, but before any real knives could be thrown, Mrs Hudson and Angelo appeared -- with food! Angelo greeted John and the Adler-Holmes siblings warmly, his cheery demeanor infectious. He was indeed busy and needed to get back to work, winking at John as he turned to leave. </p><p>“What are you waiting for?” Mrs Hudson teased them, picking up her fork. “Dig in!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, Sam and John are in touch, Mary is cray-cray, and the pies are good. And the guys are pining. What's new? Oh yeah, update on the Winchesters! They'll be coming back as I said ;) but first, Walt Disney needs a new grave<br/>I may write their POV on that one day actually...<br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3Bvk5fGUGI">This is the song Mary is singing earlier in the chapter, I basically tailored Gideon’s lyrics from Gravity Falls to this a teeny bit</a><br/>Anyway, next episode will get a little angsty, just an fyi. But not much, i promise &lt;3</p><p>And that will be on the *checks mental calendar* 25th! Stay tuned~</p><p>Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 20.11. 2020<br/>Word count: 4700<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee who is in progress of making some new fanart for this fic: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. AGRA III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Irene thinks</p><p>episode 4, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey peeps! I'm bringing you another chapter full of pining.... and some insecure!Sherlock~<br/>And good lil' sister Irene. And one disaster bisexual. You'll see. <br/>Thanks for reading :') Look at this fic grow! ~it's alive~<br/>Also, some of you probably noticed yesterday that there was an update. Sorry if I gave out the false hope it was this chapter, I ony added ToC and intro to Season1, but you probably skimmed over that already to get an idea. Yep, this fic just went from 100 to 300 chapters. 3 in 1! All three seasons will be compiled here from now on with clear breaks in-between. <br/>But let's resume to episode 4. Enjoy, and special thanks to Bee and Dee, both of whom support my crazy-ass ideas</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene closed the door of the attic room quietly. The hallway was dark, the Mystery Shack asleep, except for her and Sherlock, who lied on his bed, hands tucked under his head, eyes fixed at the ceiling. His gaze was blank, empty, distant. It almost looked pitiful, and it was, even though neither would admit to it. </p><p>“Today… was a day,” Irene sighed, sitting down on the edge of his squeaky mattress. She adjusted the turban she made out of her towel around her wet hair. </p><p>“Mhm,” Sherlock hummed, eyelids fluttering heavily. He exhaled through his nose. </p><p>“Come on, you’re not going to fire off deductions about Mary?” Irene teased him, poking him with her pinky finger. When the silence stretched out, she became worried. “Sherlock?”</p><p>“<em>‘</em>Am fine,” he groaned, shielding his eyes by putting an arm over them, elbow pointing at the ceiling. “Just….”</p><p>“Confused?” she offered sympathetically. Sherlock’s grunted moan told her all she needed to know. She patted his shin. “I know, I know.”</p><p>“No, you don’t,” Sherlock replied, voice dropping lower. He removed his hand and put it under his pillow, fixing his step-sister a quizzical look. “Why am I feeling like this?”</p><p>Good question.</p><p>“I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate, brother-dear,” she said, propping her chin on the palm of her hand. She put one leg over the other -- freshly shaven and smooth! -- and fluttered her eyelashes innocently at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back. “Oh, please. Just say it.”</p><p>“Fine,” he huffed, displeased that he had to voice such primitive things. He’d learnt a long time ago that if he talked to Irene about <em>feelings</em>, he had to be upright, blunt. But that didn’t mean he liked to do it.</p><p>Sherlock cleared his throat dramatically. “Uhm…. Alright, well, it’s regarding… John…” Irene remained silent, giving him the space to work through his emotional constipation. “Today I was… what’s the word -- jealous? Yes, I think that fits. We watched the <em>Dog-dective Doug</em>, which will forever remain my doom. We were having fun -- even with you teasing me about your new phone password which I <em>will</em> uncover. But when the letter arrived, it felt -- hollow? But I got over that. I think. However, once we got to the show…” He sighed. “God, can’t you deduce it for yourself? You were there! And it’s not like you do not notice these things. You’re basically a self-proclaimed matchmaker at this point, you may as well say your damn opinion about this mess!”</p><p>Irene waited until the lash-out was over and Sherlock’s heaving chest slowed down. He covered his eyes again, dark curls sticking out at every angle. </p><p>“You feared John would actually change his mind and moonwalk right into the grips of that dysfunctional woman,” Irene said, and Sherlock stiffened. “Please, she’s weird. But back to the point: you’re scared of your own reaction here. You, who tries to distance yourself from the ‘primitivity’ of the human mind. But you <em>are </em>human, Sherlock. As much as you deny it to the idiot classmates in Toronto and ex-classmates in London, you experience the same turmoils like the rest of us mortals. You know it, I know it, and John knows it too.”</p><p>Sherlock swallowed, prepared to speak, but Irene cut him off. </p><p>“If you think for one second I’m going to judge your own confusion over John and you, then you’re wrong,” she said sternly. Sherlock bit on the inside of his cheek. “You’re scared to get hurt if you attach yourself to this. You made it clear you don’t want a casual fling, but you’re being an idiot ignoring the <em>obvious</em>, as you’d say.”</p><p>“Which is?”</p><p>“That John is bloody studying in Toronto as well?” </p><p>“Yes, but he doesn’t enjoy his major as much as you’d think, no matter how big of a caretaker he is,” Sherlock said, shifting to sit on his crossed feet. “He may change his major. He <em>is</em> interested in medicine, but I feel like I’m missing something vital. I heard Mrs Hudson talk to Lestrade about this the other day.”</p><p>“So? Even if he did change his major, he’d still be in Toronto,” Irene argued, arching an eyebrow. “I’d say it’s a win-win either way.”</p><p>“Irene, I appreciate your positivity, but we’d need solid proof of John explicitly stating he likes me well enough to go on a date first,” Sherlock said miserably, burying a hand in his hair. Irene smelled his scented conditioner -- lavender. “I… I did think about what you said. And I… probably, likely, have a -- what’s the awful word? -- a <em>crush</em>. It’s vile.”</p><p>Suddenly, Irene got the biggest and strangest feeling of deja vu she had ever experienced. It felt as though they already had this debate, but that was impossible. Huh. </p><p>“Sherlock,” she said firmly to shake off the odd sense of time, her step-brother refusing to meet her steady gaze. “Let’s get this straight, because neither of us is -- you have feelings for John that you FINALLY admitted to…”</p><p>“So much is obvious to you.”</p><p>“And therefore you felt jealous at the prospect of him considering running back to his sorry ex. One that has terrible sense in fashion, may I add.” That got a chuckle out of him. Good. “But Sherlock, he doesn’t want that. He said so himself. You were there.”</p><p>“You cannot assume correctly in such situations, Irene,” Sherlock argued back quietly. She wanted to hug him, but he would only scoff at her. Poor, little, emotionally constipated creature of a British man. “He hasn’t seen her in two years! So much has changed you never know what chemicals hit his brain and rewire it to fall in love with her again. Human emotions are tricky at the best of situations. Besides, what would he see in me? I’m not suited for normal relationships. What if he wanted out immediately? Or… or the next day? A month after? I don’t think I should pursue this. I don’t want to destroy our friendship. It’s… I value it, Irene. I don’t want to destroy it, which, let’s admit it, is more than likely due to my eccentric personality.”</p><p>“Listen darling, John didn’t run to Mary like a trained monkey,” Irene said, happily reminding him of the fact. As heartrending as Sherlock’s self-doubt was, she’d have to be slow and consistent in her pursuit to grant him enough self esteem in this matter. These two were <em>into </em>each other. Point blank. And she’ll eat her own metaphorical hat if they don’t end up together before the end of August. Today served as enough proof to her. At the diner, the way John looked at Sherlock every time he laughed at a joke or showed him something on his phone? Yep, he’s head over tits for her big brother, confirmed. </p><p>“Sherlock, do you seriously not see that John is interested? In you, I mean. He was since the day you collided in the gift shop. I swear, it was like from a romcom movie Mummy watches on lazy Saturdays. The moment you locked eyes there was an immediate spark. As if you two knew each other already.” She shrugged, but there was a thought nagging at her mind as though begging for recognition. She repressed it, her mind was just in overdrive. </p><p>“If this is about ‘fate’ or similar topic --”</p><p>“No, it isn’t,” Irene rolled her eyes and leaned on her hand dipping deeper into the mattress. She pulled the turban off with her free hand. “I just <em>know</em>. And <em>you</em>, Sherlock, know that I am <em>very </em>good at evaluating such things. I see how John looks at you. It’s like there’s nothing else on Earth he’d rather set his eyes upon. Which is, frankly, understandable because you’re a hot mess of a scientist for the most part. And besides, I don’t like Mary, and neither do you, no point in denying that.”</p><p>A smile eased Sherlock’s sour expression. A tie knotting itself in Irene’s gut eased seeing it. “Ha, and neither does John. Unfortunately, he is too polite to say outright no to some people. Hey, there may be an advantage in there for you somewhere!” Sherlock gave her an ugly look. “Joking, I’m joking. But there is something seriously off about her, and it’s neither the singing nor the horrible fashion choices she makes. I can’t put my finger on it now, but she means trouble. It’s like a sixth sense -- don’t you roll your eyes at me, Holmes! -- she ticks off all the wrong buttons for me.”</p><p>“That’s an awful analogy,” Sherlock remarked, snorting. “As much as I loathe to say it, I agree. There’s more than meets the eye.”</p><p>“Yes. And I’ll be damned if she tries hurting John. He’s our friend, so we watch out for him.”</p><p>“Agreed.”</p><p>Irene stood up to hang her wet towel on a coat hanger by the door. “I still insist you rethink your decision regarding you and John. He’s not another Fuckboy Trevor to break up with you via text.”</p><p>“We were fourteen, Irene,” Sherlock reminded her, plopping down on his bedding. The mattress below creaked. It was a matter of time until one of the springs tore through and caused an injury. Fun.</p><p>“Don’t pretend it didn’t hurt, kids’ love or not,” she said, shutting him up. “But I mean it, Holmes. John’s not like that. He cares. And what do you mean you’re not suited for a ‘normal relationship’? What kind of bullshit is that? No relationship is normal, each is different and presents its own challenges, eccentric personality or not. Everyone has flaws, even John. Trust me, if John wanted out, he’d not engage in these adventures of yours. He’s just as much of a lunatic as you are. He certainly doesn’t care for your eccentricity. Bloody hell, he supports your interests more than Mummy!”</p><p>“It could be his friendliness. As you pointed out, he’s too nice.”</p><p>“Sherlock, you delicate, utterly dummed dummy-dumbass. I recognise mutual attraction when I see it, and this is it. You’re both adults to make a committed relationship work, whatever it takes. Plenty of people date in uni and they’re happy. Why shouldn’t you? Don’t let fear stand in the way of your happiness.”</p><p>Sherlock stayed quiet. Too quiet. She walked to her own bed, kicking off the blanket seeing as it was warm enough to sleep without it. Her belly grumbled, satisfied by tonight’s dinner at Angelo’s. She spared Sherlock a look, only to see him facing the wall, his back turned to her. There was another reason Sherlock refused to get close to anybody. It was deep rooted, more than he’d admit it to be. </p><p>Sherlock had an older brother, Mycroft. Fifteen years older, but they were dear to each other ever since Sherlock was born. From what Mummy had told Irene years ago, Sherlock adored his older brother beyond the realms of possibilities. Irene remembered Mummy’s fond chuckle as she told her how her boys used to play pirates. It went as far as having Mycroft attempt to grow a beard to cosplay it authentically for his little first mate on board. </p><p>Irene had met him two times. By the time Millie Holmes, a widow ever since Sherlock was eight months old, had married Irene’s father, Mycroft moved out and started university in Canada. Sherlock and Irene were five years old at the time, and they had gotten along surprisingly well. Both were outspoken with their dislikes, and the honesty turned out to be a two-way appreciation. </p><p>From what Irene recalled, Mycroft was alright. Polite and always nice to her, and he even bought her that favourite book focusing on eighteenth century fashion she wanted for Christmas when she was six. Ah, good times spending homework time on BBC’s historical documentaries. He could be intimidating if he chose to -- that was a strong characteristic of his. One that Sherlock seemed to have inherited. </p><p>But when Sherlock turned seven, shortly after his birthday, Mycroft had disappeared. No one knew where. He started working on the side and he was travelling at the time. It happened in the US. At first, Mummy reassured Sherlock his dealings may have made his brother rather busy. But as time went on, and summer holidays approached, and the eventual international search for Mycroft was declared over, something in Sherlock had broken and he distanced himself. And understandably so. </p><p>It was then, during a stormy night in London when the power went out that Irene had heard Sherlock promise to himself he would never submit himself to such disadvantage. She had found him reading by the candlelight, tiny hands caressing pages of a children’s encyclopaedia about pirates. His muffled sobs served Irene as a reminder that Sherlock’s heart broke once, and now, years after, mended by time, its fragility heightened, and caused him to be careful in his approach to any relationship in his life. </p><p>No, Sherlock could be happy. Irene had also made a vow back then. She <em>will</em> see Sherlock be happy and not hurt. And it was disheartening to see him deny himself this hypothetical joy of a relationship with John Watson when she saw it would only blossom and grow. In the end, she did see John’s reaction when she told him Sherlock’s into guys that second day at the Shack. <em>And</em> she saw a pair of red pants too, though that may have been a game of light.</p><p>If she learnt anything from her dear brother, it must have been that she had to leave no rock unturned and act on her instinct. This was her case: prove to Sherlock that love was not his doom. </p><p>~</p><p>A rapt knock on John’s door roused him from his semi-sleep, dreamy state. John rolled out of his bed, feet tumbling against the carpet, which softened his fall. He shuffled to the door on his knees, half-blind, his vision blurry. As he got a hold of the handle, the knock repeated. </p><p>“Yes?” he croaked, opening the door and squinting into the light streaming in from the bathroom, obscured by Irene. “What?”</p><p>“Shush!” she whispered, pushing him back into the room and carefully closing the door. John almost tripped on his own foot, having to steady himself by grabbing the wardrobe. He certainly didn’t fancy waking up like this. “I have to talk to you alone.”</p><p>“Did something happen?” he yawned, rubbing his face. That actually woke up properly. “<em>Did</em> something happen? Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yes, yes. Now listen -- what do you plan to do about Mary?”</p><p>“Huh? How’s that relevant?”</p><p>Irene invited herself on John’s messy bed while he stood in the middle of the room like an uncanny, feral werewolf who transferred back from his animal form under the full moon, but much less hairy and blond. He walked over to his nightstand and lit the lamp in the shape of a giant bee. </p><p>“It’s very relevant. I don’t like her. She’s off. Sorry, but not sorry.”</p><p>“Uhm… Wait, I’m braindead right now -- I don’t understand why I needed to be woken up for this?”</p><p>“John, you obtuse bisexual disaster!” she hissed, pushing herself into a sitting position, legs crossed under her. John blinked, flabbergasted by the outburst. Not that she was <em>wrong</em>, but what… “Your ex is pressuring you into a dinner where she’ll inevitably pop the big question and you’re <em>asleep</em>? I thought you’d be looking for an excuse to avoid going there!”</p><p>“Wow, my most sincere apologies for being <em>tired</em>,” John replied, biting at the words. Not wanting to be snarky at an unknown hour, he shook his head, regretting it immediately as it sent his sense of balance out of the window and the world around him spun. “Wait, how do you know I’m --”</p><p>“You literally have the bisexual flag hung above your bed. And I see that I’m not colourblind and you have red pants, though that doesn’t really have to mean anything nowadays.”</p><p>John’s hands automatically shot down to cover his crotch, his back colliding with his wardrobe and the wood banged shut in its hinges. He totally forgot that he was just in his underwear since it was the hottest night of the summer so far. </p><p>“Oh please,” Irene rolled her eyes, lifting one sardonic eyebrow. “As if I care about that. You’ve nothing of interest to me, Jesus. I’m a lesbian!”</p><p>“And I have dignity!”</p><p>“Not much if you let yourself be dragged to a dinner with your ex.”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“Don’t tell me I’m wrong! Why did you agree? I get that you were being polite, but you’ve got to have healthy boundaries.”</p><p>John let out a sigh, patting the wardrobe to grab a pair of shorts. So what if Irene was a lesbian? He doesn’t flail about in his underwear only in front of anyone. “Listen, I don’t know exactly why I said I’ll go.”</p><p>“Because you weren’t comfortable at all when she came to see you,” Irene continued, her brows furrowed as she picked at her nails. “She invaded your personal space like you belong to her. She forced herself onto you, basically. And I think you’re too nice to say no.”</p><p>“Irene…” John started, but clasped his mouth shut when no other words offered themselves. He lowered himself on his desk chair, leaning backwards as he stared into the ceiling. Why did this feel like a therapist visit? “I don’t know. But I can tell you that I don’t plan to get together with Mary. I said so earlier today. I thought that maybe going to see her for dinner <em>once</em> will satisfy her enough to let me be for the rest of summer.”</p><p>“Huh. Alright, I see your logic, but it’s absolutely flawed. You can’t give her a taste and then expect her to give you up! It’s like provoking a tiger! Except that she’s not a majestic feline creature of the east, she’s a chupacabra!”</p><p>“That’s…. Okay, that’s a pretty good evaluation. But I don’t want to be rude. I mean, fine, we broke up -- and that was a damn weird experience and it still makes me mad --”</p><p>“Then WHY did you agree again? John, you really are disaster bisexual.”</p><p>“I could be an ally,” John argued, though he appreciated that noticing details ran in the Adler-Holmes family. Irene gave him a look that told him all he needed: <em>I’m right, you’re obtuse, shut up</em>.</p><p>“Honestly, John,” she let out an exasperated sigh, poking John with a pointy fingernail. “You have an ex, a woman who is a tad too much attached to you, by the way, and you say you don’t want to date her.”</p><p>“I don’t,” John said sincerely, his toes tapping against the soft threads of his carpet. </p><p>“And then there is my brother, whom you oogle and trail like a lost puppy and vice versa.”</p><p>John choked on his spit, bending over in his chair. Now that’s a surprise. “Yeah, alright. Am I <em>that</em> obvious?”</p><p>“Yes. To me, anyway.”</p><p>“Greg said the same thing,” John said, hiding his face in his hands. “Oh my God, this is humiliating.”</p><p>Feet shuffled on the floor, and then Irene was at his side, a soothing palm tracing circles on his bare back. “It’s not. I find it cute. But also infuriating because you both --”</p><p>“Look, Irene,” John straightened in his chair, looking at the clock on his bedside table. “It’s half past midnight. I appreciate your concern, but I’d rather not talk about my rather obvious crush, as I just found out, this late. Or early. Whatever. I want to get Mary out of the way first.” He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. Thinking about what creeped on him today made his stomach cramp. Every instinct told him to run in the other direction, said direction being Sherlock. But he already confirmed, and he was no coward. He can survive an hour in his ex’s presence, just this once. Give her a clear message that no, thank you, but I’ve met a brilliant guy and I’m not interested in anything you have to offer -- please move on. </p><p>“What do you plan to do about Sherlock?” Irene asked quietly, crouching next to John. His agitation grew bigger, he had to stand up. He went to open the yellow and purple glass stained window to let some fresh air in. </p><p>What <em>was</em> he going to do about his crush? He had a clear and straightforward plan -- use a real life Uno card and observe Sherlock, but today’s unfortunate distraction by the name of Mary marred them. He hoped to get this sorted out as soon as possible and then turn his full attention to his friend (and maybe something more?). </p><p>The windowsill on which he leaned creaked under his weight. The wood was old and the protective layer of wax was peeling off. John picked at it, crumbling the flakes between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not sure,” he murmured. “I want to make sure Sherlock doesn’t brush me off as a dumbass. I do have a suspicion but, well. I need proper proof.” </p><p>A smack of skin-on-skin contact made him turn around, squinting into the semi-darkness of his room. Irene stood in the middle, fingers splayed on her face as she cumbersomely stared at him through the slits. “You<em> dumb motherfuckers</em>.”</p><p>“What? I’m not going to embarrass myself without knowing it one-hundred percent!”</p><p>“You two are like Dumb and Dumber, but enhanced to modern Canadian-British edition,” Irene fake cried over their disheartening pining. “Have you <em>seen</em> Sherlock today? And previous days? And when we were having s’mores? Don’t be coy with me, Watson, you were sitting on Mrs Hudon’s truck like lovebirds!”</p><p>“That’s actually when it kicked me that I should do something about it,” John conceded, scratching his neck, eyes downcast. He worried his lower lip between his front teeth, then yawned. “I’m not blind, you know. Just careful.”</p><p>“You both are,” Irene muttered under her breath, shaking her head. She regarded John one last time before her shoulders slumped. “Sorry. But as a matchmaker, I’m getting frustrated.”</p><p>“What? I’m your guinea pig?”</p><p>“Don’t fancy yourself, more like a labrador. Ha, there’s a pun! A LABrador, get it?”</p><p>“I appreciate it, but it’s too early to give you credit.”</p><p>“Fine, I’ll take my awesomeness with me,” Irene proclaimed, walking towards the door. Suddenly, panic overtook John and he lunged at her. </p><p>“Wait! Are you going to tell Sherlock about…?”</p><p>Irene looked like she desired nothing more than to slap some sense into him, and John backed up. “I am a matchmaker, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing all the work. You said you want to get proof. Then open your eyes, you stereotypical Canadian who wants to be nice to his ex, and be quick about it.” She softly opened the door, patting John on the right bicep. “But be careful, John. I wasn’t bluffing when I said something is off about Mary. Sorry if it’s offensive, but that’s my womanly instinct, and it never failed me. If you need help or anything, just say so, okay?”</p><p>“I will. Thank you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sherlock is a little insecure bby. But Irene is always there for him. And she's always there to call him and John out on their bullshit. She deserves hot chocolate and a face mask <br/>Also,,, yeah, red pants. Somehow they sneaked in,,, don't ask me how, I really am not sure how relevant they are anymore, but if anything, it's an inside joke to good ol' times</p><p>Next update to how John's unwilling dinner with Mary will arrive on the *looks at wrist where I have no watch* 30th November! Stay tuned~</p><p>Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 25.11. 2020<br/>Word count: 3854<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee who is in progress of making some new fanart for this monster of a fic: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. AGRA IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are shrimps and lavender shampoo</p><p>episode 4, chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Welcome back to Reichenbach Falls, where John deals with his ex, Irene has his back, and Sherlock is pining~<br/>Thank you all for reading, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! We're almost at 500 hits like whoa :0 COOKIES FOR YOU! &lt;3 I'm listening to Schuyler Sisters from the Hamilton musical, and they just sang 'Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now~'<br/>Hell yeah sis' -- let's get on with the story!<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, who know I despise bananas with the passion of 1k burning stars <br/>I'm not kidding, I loathe bananas. That's it for a random fact of the day</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John parked Greg’s car along the sidewalk, just about fifty meters away from the restaurant. He borrowed it under the pretense of going to visit Mike Stamford, a local boy he befriended a couple years ago. Greg didn’t know John and Mary had dated. John never got around to casually mentioning it since they got together at the end of summer before he left for uni that year, and it was mostly long-distance. They broke up a few months later either way, there was no reason mentioning it to Greg. </p><p>He locked the car and checked himself in the window reflection. He was wearing plain blue jeans and a green shirt which he had gotten as a Christmas present last year from… huh, the name escaped him, but it was a close friend of his from uni. He fixed his ruffled hair and braced himself for the awkward dinner ahead of him. </p><p>Speedy’s indeed upgraded and branched out. The building had new plaster on the outside, the roof was reconstructed, and the windows polished beyond the status of cleanliness. John marched on, pushing through the swinging doors. Inside, he was immediately called over by Mary’s stretchy voice. </p><p>“John! Here!” she flashed him with a champagne glass. She sipped at the bubbly liquid as he greeted her and sat down on a chair opposite. She was sitting on a built-in couch, wide enough for at least four people. “Why sit there? Join me here so we don’t have to shout at each other for the whole restaurant to hear.”</p><p>John wanted to make a remark about her not being so subtle, but she was right, to a degree. The table was large. Too large. Maybe that was good and he should’ve stayed where he was to put an obstacle between the two of them in case she jumps at him and kidnaps him. Jeez, his anxiety was doing a great job overthinking. He obeyed and took a seat next to her. Mary wore a black dress to this occasion, one that hugged and complimented her figure, her hair held in position by dozens of pins, John noticed. </p><p>“So, how are you?” John asked politely, focusing on the menu on the table. Mary sat close, but not in his personal space. Yet. Why did he agree to this again? A wave of unease washed over him. It didn’t use to be like this -- when did he get so queasy around her?</p><p>“Fine,” Mary said levelly, taking another sip. He felt her gaze bore into him. He suppressed a shudder. “Had two shows today. The people were lovely, but some can be <em>such </em>idiots.”</p><p>John winced on their behalf. “Why would you offer to ‘help’ them but criticise them at the same time? That’s sort of hypocritical, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t mind it, I’m just saying the truth, is all,” Mary smirked. The waiter appeared at that moment, and John thanked him in his mind. Mary’s demeanor was casual, carefree, and arrogant. Looking back, she used to make comments like these two years back as well. </p><p>After they ordered -- Mary insisted John try the new shrimp gumbo made by a cook from New Orleans -- the atmosphere somewhat lightened to bearable. John gave credit to the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. </p><p>“So how is university going?” Mary asked, blinking at him coquettishly. Her fake eyelashes fluttered, and John couldn’t help but think of a Disney villain doing this to a protagonist to woo them via some wicked spell. Goosebumps prickled at the back of his neck. </p><p>“Good, good. Just finished my second year,” John said, gulping down a glass of water. He frowned when Mary’s own expression scrunched up. “What?”</p><p>“Weren’t you in your third year?”</p><p>“What? No, this was my second,” John repeated, hand sliding up and down his thigh reflexively. Mary gave him an odd look, but shrugged. </p><p>“I must’ve confused it with another friend, then,” she laughed it off, pointy fingers with red nail polish clicking on the beige tablecloth. “But good for you, I imagine you enjoy the studies?”</p><p>“I do, yeah,” John said, feeling the unease dissipate gradually. It got easier, talking to her. And it was easier answering rather than asking questions. “The units in general are interesting, although chemistry is tough as always. Speaking of which, I could ask my friend Sherlock to help me go over some units, he’s studying chemistry. You know, he’s the guy whom you --”</p><p>“I never liked chemistry either,” Mary added and she thanked the waiter who had just delivered their meals. She ignored any mention of Sherlock, her expression unsuggestive of even hearing John talk about him. “All those reactions and elements. Useless to my craft. Dig in, please. I’m curious what you’ll say. Oh, what are your plans for the rest of summer?”</p><p>“Mostly hanging around the Shack, helping Greg, and hanging out with Sherlock and Irene,” John said, spooning himself some of the gumbo. He blew on the gumbo so as not to burn his tongue and tasted it. God, it was delicious. It had the perfect mix of spices and condiments. “This is delicious!”</p><p>“I’m glad you like it! I’ll make sure to pass your compliments to the chef. How’s Greg doing?”</p><p>John noted her evasion of the two siblings. No bother, she had met them yesterday. No hard feelings. Except that if she wanted to catch up for real, she would display at least some form of inquiry over them, seeing as John had mentioned them a number of times already. </p><p>“Ah, you know him. Scamming tourists that are dumb enough to wave their wallets out and about. Same old Greg, heh.”</p><p>“Some people never change,” she smirked, digging into her own meal. John felt he should counter her queries, so he glued together any willing brain cells that didn’t nope out for the night. </p><p>“And how about you, Mary? Seb and you still together?” John blurted out, not quite tasting the bitterness in his tone. Mary didn’t even flinch, but she shot him a calculating look.</p><p>“No,” she said evenly, surveying him. She met John’s gaze and smiled as if they discussed weather. “Why would I date Moran? He’s an asshole.”</p><p>“Oh?” John said, wiping sauce from his lips with a napkin. Mary watched him intently, fingers playing with her pearl necklace. He stifled another shiver running down his spine. Was he always this squeamish and restless around her? “Because if my memory serves right, that Christmas I saw you, you were practically draped over his neck.”</p><p>“I was very much <em>not</em>,” Mary said, her tone sharp. She tapped her fork against the table, brows furrowing minutely before her face blanked out. “You have it all messed up.”</p><p>“Sorry, but I usually remember things like when we were breaking up.”</p><p>Mary’s head snapped up, a dangerous glimmer in the deepest distance of her irises. John held her gaze, unrelenting. He wouldn’t allow her to try to tell him otherwise. All of a sudden, his head felt dizzy, as if an invisible force tried to pull him backwards into a pool or under the surface of an ocean. A deja vu, if you will. He never saw such a cold look on Mary, but he wasn’t completely unfamiliar with it, either. </p><p>“How about we change the topic?” she offered, John nodding impulsively. Better do that. “Let’s not bring up old wounds and mishaps, alright?”</p><p>That tapered down John’s pent up anger a trifle. He cleared his throat, looking to the side. <em>A friendly dinner</em>. Sure, Jan. Just end it soon. <em>Or end me</em>, John thought, picking up his spoon again. This was embarrassing. “Sorry. Don’t know where that came from.”</p><p>“No big deal,” she chuckled dismissively. “I get it would… upset you. Nevermind. How’s Mrs Hudson? Still working at the Shack?”</p><p>“Yeah, she’s doing fine.” Thank goodness it moved on to a less awkward topic. “Without her, the Shack would fall.”</p><p>“I can imagine. Does Greg plan to sell it?”</p><p>“No idea,” John said, swirling the spoon in the gumbo. “It’s his property, he bought it all legally. And it brings him profit, why would he get rid of it?”</p><p>Mary’s shoulders lifted. “Maybe some investor would pay him enough so he could retire early, who knows? This is America, anything is possible.”</p><p>“Mhm. But no, he wouldn’t have the heart to sell it. He’s lived there for two decades, it’s our home.”</p><p>“I see. Here’s to more happy days at the Shack,” Mary raised her champagne glass, as did John. He didn’t notice it resting at his elbow until now. They drank together, John thankful for the short amount of silence that stretched out. </p><p>Then Mary scooted closer to John, forking a bite and offering him a taste. “Try this spaghetti, it’s as delicious as that gumbo.”</p><p>“No thanks, I’m afraid I won’t be able to finish it otherwise,” John craned his neck back. Nope. Mary took the hint and ate the piece, winking at him. His gaze drifted to the round lamp on their table. This is why in general he preferred small businesses like Angelo’s to dine at. There were candles, and damn if he’s a romantic, but it made the atmosphere more organic, unforced. Not like here, where the lamp illuminated every nook and cranny and shone brighter than John’s phone screen at two A.M. </p><p>“What about your grandpa? He rocked that piano yesterday. Is he still teaching music?”</p><p>“Retired, actually,” Mary said, drinking the rest of her champagne. “He says hi, by the way. Sends his regards since you’re studying medicine. Says you need a lot of good luck. His brother studied back in India and then later transferred to America, so he has an idea how hard it is.”</p><p>“Thanks. What do you do outside of shows? Any other jobs?” John asked, halfway finished with his meal. It was progressively less awkward, save for the occasional dread. </p><p>Mary gave him an incredulous look. “Can you imagine me in a regular job? Dear me, people don’t change, John. I’m certainly not changing my comfortable lifestyle. This, what I do, is hard work. I’ve been at it for ten years, going to be at least another ten. I’m my own boss.”</p><p>“Hear, hear,” John said, laughing or the first time since he had gotten there. “No, I can’t imagine you in sweatpants or jeans. Only ever dresses.”</p><p>Mary’s irises glimmered at that. Her lashes fluttered heavily like the wings of a butterfly. “Listen, John. I know we haven’t been on the same page lately, but I wondered whether you could help me with something…”</p><p>John’s caretaker mode kicked into overdrive; he didn’t notice other diners paying attention to them now. They had seen Mary and her handsome companion lounging in here, and it seemed like a good idea to eavesdrop on their conversation. Everyone was tuned in as though it were a soap opera, eagerly anticipating the climax. </p><p>“What is it? Everything okay?” He instinctively leaned closer to Mary, and she giggled nervously. </p><p>“Well, you know how Mister Magnussen throws a charity party every year at Christmas?”</p><p>John, sensing what she may be hinting at, sighed in relief and sagged back. “I’m not in town on Christmas. Sorry. Once that I was here, that has been a lucky incident.” It wasn’t lucky at all, he ran away from home that year, and coincidentally, they broke up before New Year’s Eve as well. </p><p>“I know,” Mary whispered, her smile tighter at the corners. She played with the pearls again, and John felt the shivers even stronger this close. “But he decided that this year deserves two charity fundraisers. And the first one is at the end of August. I was thinking I’d invite you as my plus one?”</p><p>The music stopped, figurative or not, all eyes on them. Panic dawned on John for being put on the spot, in front of so many, incredibly nosy people. His heart travelled up his throat, the heightened sense of his own pulse sending a wave of nausea over him. Damnit, Watson, what is wrong with you? You faced pixies, a homicidal ghost, and wicked Nicolas Cage impostor in the past two weeks, just say no!</p><p>“Uhm,” he began, building up his composure, despite the flushing of his cheeks. Mary’s grip around the pearls was so tight her knuckles went white. Jesus, had she planned on him to say yes? Typical, in a way. Mary had always done this, decided what they would be doing and what not, even when they were kids. It was annoying, and now she’s done it <em>again</em>. </p><p>He had no reason to feel disadvantaged. Or cornered (well, that’s questionable). He owed Mary nothing. Why didn’t she ask Moran or someone ‘new’? That would save her the trouble of rejection. Because John hated social gatherings that required suits with the passion of a thousand burning suns, and he would not succumb to the pressure.</p><p>He would <em>not</em>.</p><p>Mary and the diners, upon surveying them, looked at him expectantly, hopefully. </p><p>John swallowed the lump in his throat, clenched and unclenched his fists under the table and made his choice.</p><p>~</p><p>Sherlock refused to call it pining. No. Just… no. He only took refuge by the living room window, thinking today was a spectacular day for bird watching. Yes, the yellow-stained window provided the right artistic delicacy to observe the outside world from inside the Shack. </p><p>“Pining still?” Irene snorted from the doorframe. Sherlock graciously ignored her. He spotted a swallow diving after bugs invisible to him in the air. Birds were fascinating. “Relax, he said he won’t stay longer than necessary. So stop waiting like an abandoned puppy. He’s not getting back together with Mary.”</p><p>“You don’t know that,” Sherlock reminded her, looking at her silhouetted reflection in the window. </p><p>“I’m beginning to get tired of your bullshit, Sherlock. He had discomfort written all over him when he walked out. Stop repeating your mantra and stop underappreciating yourself like a broken record. He’s pining right back.”</p><p>Sherlock grunted a response, his forehead bouncing against the glass, the windowpane shaking under the stress he put on it. Then, the steady roar of an engine reached his ears. His head snapped up, shoulders lifting. John came back.</p><p>He turned to go sit in the kitchen, ignoring Irene in her entirety. He had taken out his chemistry textbooks earlier to calm his nerves. Unfortunately, the reactions and equations succeeded to divert his mind’s focus from John for only mere two hours. He had intentionally begun an hour prior to John leaving, partially to avoid the sudden ache that came with it. </p><p>The clock ticked and tocked. Time flew by. And Sherlock, despite his better judgement, he meditated on Irene’s words from the previous night. It wasn’t often he allowed himself to be more vulnerable with people. He had his reasons. But at least Irene didn’t ridicule him for his indecisiveness. She did voice her exasperation, but that was when they were alone. She was all the support network he had, nowadays. He learned to trust her, albeit reluctantly. </p><p>But right as she might be, could he trust her with this? His heart wasn’t fragile, but it was covered in miniscule cracks due to the aforementioned reasons. And Sherlock, somewhere inside that thick skull of his, knew she was right. Or he wanted to believe it. The rational part told him to hold his horses and observe. So he would, he concluded. That’s what he knew how to do best.</p><p>John Watson was an interesting specimen to study. And if ‘fate’ existed and Irene turned out to be truly right, and John proved to be reciprocating his feelings… Well. Sherlock can wait for the results of his observations until then. Mind over matter, over heart. </p><p>He was lost so deep in thought he hadn’t heard the front door open and close. </p><p>“John! How was it?” Irene asked, curious. Sherlock snapped his head up to see a troubled John slouching on a chair opposite of him. </p><p>He carried himself heavy, his usual good mood disintegrated. He almost looked catatonic. John said this dinner was the last interaction he desired to have with Mary this summer. In that case, his return should have been cheery and celebratory, as he’d envisioned. This was the complete opposite of the anticipated reaction.</p><p>“You agreed to a favour of hers,” Sherlock said neutrally. John’s sharp exhale through his nose confirmed it. </p><p>“She convinced me to accompany her to a fucking <em>fundraiser</em>,” John groaned, face-palming himself. </p><p>“What? How?” Irene exclaimed, tapping her foot against the tiled floor. </p><p>“Don’t ask me, I don’t know!” John said loudly, sitting ramrod straight. “I wanted to say no. I had it on the tip of my tongue! She assumed I would say yes, counted on it. I saw right through it, she used to do this when we were dating as well. But then… Ah, the memory is already fuzzy. Everyone watched us like we were a fucking soap opera! I was put on the spot, okay? I have no fucking desire to go to that fundraiser, much less since I was pressured to say yes. But I also didn’t want to seem like an asshole for dismissing the ‘<em>Reichenbach Angel</em>’.”</p><p>John fumed, elbows on the table, face burrowed in his large hands. Shame played a big factor in this. When he looked at them, his dark eyes were pleading. “You have to help me.”</p><p>“I can go tell Mary to fuck off,” Irene suggested airily, kicking Sherlock in the ankle. He frowned, half terrified of where this may lead to. “Listen, John. My boy.” She sat down on a free chair, arms resting on the backrest. John shot a questioning look to Sherlock who shrugged, helpless himself. Who knows what this crazy woman has up her sleeves anymore. Irene pointed at the blond accusingly, poking him in the pecs. “You and your big, soft heart are two pairs of a whole idiot. We know you have no feelings spare towards your ex, so much is obvious, as Sherlock would say. But your being soft won’t help you in situations like these. BE. MORE. <strong>ASSERTIVE</strong>.”</p><p>The last insistence was yelled at John, startling both him and Sherlock out of their chairs. </p><p>“Honestly! I know it can be tough, because you have history with her -- I get it! But she is pushing you to do something you don’t want to participate in. Where will it end? At your fake-ass wedding she projected over you? OVER MY DEAD BODY. I am <em>not </em>letting your lacking pettiness destroy you. I have enough for the both of us. So, I can go deliver a memo. Her sorry, manipulative arse can pack its bags and take a train to Texas to get bitch slapped by Dave Strider, because I sure as hell am NOT letting you succumb to that bitch. Sorry-not-sorry, she gives me the heebie-jeebies. Reichenbach Angel my <em>arse</em>. If you don’t want to be the asshole, I will. ANYWAY, OFF I GO.”</p><p>Irene marched out of the kitchen, head held high, leaving dumbstruck John and Sherlock gaping in her wake. </p><p>“What the hell was that about?” John said after the shock had worn off. He craned his neck to see where Irene had gone to. “I mean, I agree with everything she said, and honestly? I’ll let her handle my life any time after this.”</p><p>“Yes, she can be…. Quite determined,” Sherlock tipped his head, an amused smile painting his features. He marvelled at how much vigour one woman could possess. The front door banged shut, making them flinch. “She took Lestrade’s car keys, I bet.”</p><p>“Eh, he doesn’t need it tonight. He’s already snoring out on the back porch. God, what’s Irene gonna do?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged, relief washing over him now that Irene took the reins in this catastrophic situation. He closed his chemistry textbook and got up, John mirroring him. “Irene can be very persuasive when she puts her mind to it. She may be short, but her fierceness makes her thrice as intimidating.”</p><p>“Tell me about it,” John huffed a laugh, cracking his knuckles as they ascended the stairs. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat and breath caught in his chest when John’s fingers wound around his wrist, stopping him midway on the stairs. “Uhm, are you busy?”</p><p>Blood rushed through Sherlock’s ears, making it hard to concentrate on giving an answer. “Am not,” he croaked at last, hurrying upstairs to avoid blushing. God damnit, this <em>is </em>a full-blown crush. That’s a frankly depressive thought. “Want to read the journal? I have a new theory regarding the author, I could use a second opinion.”</p><p>“Of course! Just give me a minute to change and I’ll be there.”</p><p>Sherlock didn’t look back, instead going straight in the attic. He very much tried not to imagine John changing his clothes to a more comfortable t-shirt and shorts. And he failed, which in turn made his cheeks heat up, and he had to burrow his face into his cooled off pillow. Lying face down, he tampered down any other thirsty thoughts his treacherous mind unexpectedly produced. He was in some deep, deep trouble. And it was getting uncontrollably out of hand. </p><p>“I hate this,” he groaned into the fluffy pillow, but the material muffled it into ‘<em>Mm hae tiiiiiiis</em>’. Heavy footsteps startled him out of his pity party, and he shot up from his bed to a sitting position, retaining composure by pretending to be fluffing up his soft headrest. </p><p>“I’m here!” John sang, outstretching his hands. His good mood and high spirits resumed. Sherlock ran his gaze up and down, appreciating the view, but not wanting his foolishness to give him away, he hummed and got up to retrieve the mystery journal from his suitcase. “Oh, by the way, Sam sent another selfie.”</p><p>“Oh?” </p><p>“Yeah, here,” John showed him his phone where the Winchester brothers stuck out their tongues at them. Dean was wearing a pair of Mickey Mouse ears, bemused that he had to be the one in that atrocious thing. Sam looked very satisfied with himself. Under the picture there was a text: ‘<em>Won a bet last night, loser had to wear ‘cursed’ Mickey ears.</em>’</p><p>“How’s their exorcism hunt going?” Sherlock asked, fingers absentmindedly caressing the journal’s leather spine. “Is Dean playing the bait?”</p><p>“Dunno, I’ll ask,” John said, tapping away on the keyboard, vibrations the only sound in the room. He sent the message and tossed the phone on Irene’s bed. Sherlock sat down on the floor, back resting against the side of his bed. John settled himself on his mattress, close so that he could peer over Sherlock’s shoulder. He tried not to shudder when John’s breath tickled the skin where neck meets shoulder. </p><p>It would be so easy to rest his head on the mattress, rest his right cheek in the duvet and nuzzle John’s nose. Or kiss. Or… Jesus, okay, this was problematic. <em>Focus on the journal</em>. He prided himself on his mental prowess, but John’s proximity made it difficult. Especially when he was undecided on so many tangents. He forced himself to open the journal so that John thought his brain was functioning, his guts squirming and twisting from the hypothetical possibilities. </p><p>John didn’t reunite with Mary. Did that mean Sherlock’s worries were over? No. But it eliminated one that made him nauseous above others, one that he didn’t consider prior. He scolded himself for how hopeful it made him feel, but sentiment seemed to be making him these days. The worst thing was that he truly didn’t mind it. John made him experience a roller-coaster of feelings and unimportant, ridiculous fantasies. But… that didn’t mean he would be interested in Sherlock, still. Much as Irene claimed it, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it fully. He did catch glimpses of John looking at him like there was no one else in the room, but why? There’s nothing that special about Sherlock to deserve such attention. And true, in the last few days, John appeared to be getting closer to him, physically and otherwise. As if their atoms’ nuclei automatically attracted the other’s like magnets. And… if he had to be honest, he would say that on the night of the burning of Nicolas Cage, they both looked at the other’s lips. But they didn’t kiss. But… it was probably close. He didn’t know. </p><p>But he supposed that Irene <em>was</em> right. In the end, his step-sister, intelligent, sharp, quick-witted, if a pain in the arse on occasion. And she was right when she said that dating in Toronto would actually be quite handy. Maybe he should allow more spontaneity in his life. He tried to resist this drag and pull, and failed. He couldn’t shield himself forever. But it will require small steps. </p><p>“Right,” he said aloud, finding a page with the colour wheel. He had to distract himself, and John from that awful dinner. He’ll do what he always does: observe and take mental notes on the subject of John Watson. “So, the author…”</p><p>“Wait, I have a question,” John said, clasping his mouth shut immediately after. Sherlock twisted in his waist on the floor to look at him. The subject of his infatuation sucked on his lower lip, hazel eyes fixed on the ceiling covered in cobwebs, brows furrowed in a confounded self-contemplation known only to him. </p><p>“Yes?” Sherlock’s own eyebrows knitted together into a frown. </p><p>“Uh, actually, nevermind,” John coughed, sitting up as he ruffled his hair, golden in the sunlight streaming in through the triangular purple and red glass stained window. Sherlock had difficulty prying his eyes from it and stop staring. “It’s stupid. Forget I said anything. So what about your author theory?”</p><p>Sherlock squinted at the boy next to him. Was he… flustered? Did he just see John blush? Interesting. “No-no-no,” he said, the left side of his lips tilting up. “You’ve begun it already. Out with it.”</p><p>“No…. It’s -- silly.”</p><p>“You’re being silly,” Sherlock countered, rolling his eyes at the juvenile interaction. John glared at him, though without venom. More like bemused. “C’mon -- out with it. I’m not going to laugh.”</p><p>“It’s nothing. I thought we were going to figure out what happened to a missing person?”</p><p>Sherlock hopped on the mattress and poked John with a bony finger. “Say it.” Poke. John stayed silent. “Say it.” Poke. Poke poke. “John. John. <em>John</em>.”</p><p>“Alright, fine!” John put up his hands defensively, rubbing the spot that Sherlock poked with diligence. He gave him a smile, a whiff of embarrassment still lingering on his pretty features. Sherlock noted it was considerably more difficult to focus on things that weren’t John’s lips. “But promise you won’t laugh.”</p><p>“Okay. I promise,” Sherlock nodded solemnly, already having a hard time containing his giddiness. This was ridiculous, but in the best possible way. John shoved him in the shoulder good-naturedly. </p><p>“Fine. So. Jesus, alright, I’m an idiot -- but is it lavender that you wash your hair with?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>John flushed, stuttering. “Sorry -- I… Christ, sorry. I smelled it as I peered over your shoulder and… it’s a nice scent? Just… wondering what it is, is all. Making sure it <em>is</em> lavender and my nose is functional, ya know?”</p><p>Sherlock found him especially endearing. He curled a strand of his dark brown hair around a finger and tucked it behind his ear. “Yes, it’s lavender. And a bit of cedar added to the mix, I believe.”</p><p>“Why lavender?” John asked, scanning Sherlock’s hair and face. It was now his turn to flush. </p><p>“I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging. “I suppose it started when I was fifteen and I badly needed to smell different from the idiots I went to school with. I find the typical recommended -- or rather, advertised -- male body wash and hair shampoos a tad too….”</p><p>“Chemical?” John supplied. </p><p>“Perhaps. Yeah, I think that fits. Besides, why can’t a man smell, I don’t know, softer? Am I making sense? Not to devalue masculinity or femininity in the process, but it can get quite ridiculous. Seriously, I once saw a body wash called ‘Body Strengthening Shampoo’ as if it truly works miracles to gain you abs or pronounced muscles. And why can’t guys smell like… like, dragon fruit or oranges? Honestly, this whole divide between genders is rightfully stupid in so many instances. Irene and I both agree on it. I’ll smell like lavender if I want to. And I…. Well, that’s it, basically.”</p><p>It was John’s turn now to playfully tease Sherlock about whatever he left unsaid and hanging up above them. “Hey, if I had to come clear about your scented shampoo, then you should finish your sentence too.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I like to be the sole hypocrite but okay. Well, I also chose lavender shampoo because it’s tinted with purple. The colour, obviously. And… I dunno, I like purple. Always did, in fact. I never liked shampoos or body wash in other colours, namely because I got used to it as a child, too.”</p><p>“That’s interesting,” John said, looking mildly impressed with Sherlock’s reasoning. He smiled in that adorable way that made crinkles appear in the corners of his eyes. “And kinda cute, to be honest. I agree with you two, why can’t guys smell like flowers? It’s much more inviting, now that I think of it. I can say that you’ve got good taste in the smells, though.”</p><p>“Actually!” Sherlock exclaimed, shooting up to his feet as he hurried out of the room, mainly to avoid blushing right in front of John. <em>He complimented him, aaaaaaah!</em> “It’s been a while since I researched terpenes and the specific properties. Mind if we postpone the author debate? After all, it’d be better with Irene present so that I don’t have to repeat myself. I find it tedious. I need to fetch my shampoo to look at its composition.”</p><p>When he looked over his shoulder to make sure John was alright with him changing the topic so suddenly -- terpenes <em>did</em> interest him -- he saw him chuckle. “Of course. Irene will appreciate us waiting for her.”</p><p>So off Sherlock went, happy how he managed to distract them both unknowingly. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Terpenes, well. Gotta use my so-far limited knowledge of gymnasial chemistry somehow for when I need in May at graduation, right? There's much more to them but for the sake of fanfiction, it's just a passing word that'll probably never appear again :D<br/>Also, yes. Mary is cray-cray. It'll get even cray-cray-er!</p><p>Precisely on the 5th of December! stay tuned to see what comes of Irene's heroic save of our disaster bisexual~</p><p>Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 30.11. 2020<br/>Word count: 5050<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee who's got some bangin's fanart ofor RF in the works: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. AGRA V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a conspiracy</p><p>episode 4, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wanted to post this as soon as my country (Slovakia) hit midnight,but apparently ao3 didn't register it as a new day and considered it me posting it in the future I'm currently vibing to the Shrek 2 soundtrack (I Need A Hero specifically), simply cuz I couldn't wait to post this finale and needed the grooves. I hope you'll enjoy it hehe~<br/>Thank you all for reading!! We passed a technically non-existent, mental milestone of 500 hits! &lt;3 Thanks everybody who reads and follows this fic, this is the cutest &lt;3 pearl necklaces to y'all! &gt;;3<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee for listening to me bullshit my way through practising russian for oral examinations this past Wednesday</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene drove to the place where Mary’s -- Agra’s -- Tent of Fuckery ( temporary working name) was stationed. There was a show scheduled at nine, so with enough hurry she’d get to talk to her without having to sit through the fakeness again. </p><p>The evening weather was warm and slow, unlike Greg’s car that swished through the mostly abandoned streets like greased lightning. The radio blasted ‘<em>I Want To Break Free</em>’ by Queen, courtesy of Greg’s blessed CD collection. The ride was as thematic as it would get. </p><p>If Mary decides to go crazy on her, she’ll get a restraining order. Easy. Irene’s in-heat-of-the-moment decisions were astounding at the best of times when it came to saving people from their relationships. What could she say, she liked to be the voice of the oppressed. </p><p>She swirled the wheel to the left and stomped on the break, tires squeaking on asphalt a block further than where Mrs Hudson parked yesterday. Irene left the radio on, not bothering to lock the car -- this will be done and over with soon. </p><p>Irene stalked around the Tent to a backstage trailer, undoubtedly Mary’s, judging by the amount of pinks and glitter emitting from the inside. Irene squared her shoulders, chin high up, and walked right up to the trailer. Three knocks later, Mary invited her in. Irene gagged as a pungent smell of peaches hit her nose. How can she <em>breathe </em>in here? Mary rested with her feet up on a small fancy sofa lined with gold. Arrogance made up like, eighty-five percent of her being, Irene thought. Her eyes were snake-like, sharp and attentive, as if ready to strike and catch its prey. Definitely a red flag. </p><p>“Can I help you?” Mary said prudently. She made no effort to greet Irene or offer her a seat. She turned a page of the magazine she was reading. Her body language showed no signs of being intimidated or bothered, so Irene mirrored her. There’s no backing away. She’ll get John out of her claws, she promised. Or rather, insisted. </p><p>“Yes, Mary, is it?” Irene started, clasping hands behind her back. She adopted her business voice and tone she used during group projects and fashion shows. “I’m Irene Adler.”</p><p>“So I’ve heard,” Mary sighed, tossing the magazine aside. She cast her a forced smile. “Get to the point. Show’s starting in ten minutes.”</p><p>“I’m  here because of John.”</p><p>“Oh? Did something happen to him?” Mary’s interest was immediate, and a wave of worry washed over her otherwise calm facial expression. </p><p>“Depends on how you perceive it,” Irene said. She fixed Mary with a steady, unrelenting gaze. “Look, Mary, I’ll be blunt. He won’t be joining you at the fundraiser. In fact, he doesn’t want to meet up with you much at all. Sorry. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what happened between you two, whatever it was.”</p><p>Mary blinked rapidly as though Irene slapped her (a possible option), and shifted her pose. It took a hit. “So… Have you talked him out of it?” She tried to keep her voice reserved and calm, but there was an undertone of menace. </p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Irene shook her head, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m being the voice of reason in this tomfuckery you’ve set up. John has been weary of you ever since your lilac letter arrived. And he hates formal parties. <em>And</em> you’re obvious in your desire to get back with him.”</p><p>“You would know what he hates, wouldn’t you?!” Mary snapped, standing up to her full height (not much taller than Irene). Her eyes flared with fire, and her limbs trembled under conscious restraint. Irene stood her ground. </p><p>“I’m telling you the truth, Mary,” she said, holding up her palm as a peace sign. “And I would never lie to keep John from enjoying himself. But he doesn’t. Enjoy himself, I mean. Not when you force him into social gatherings and are pushy and demanding.”</p><p>Mary’s head hung low, contemplating the words. Irene pitied her, to a degree. But she was trying too hard to get John to be on friendly terms with her, and she was not subtle about it either. </p><p>“Look, if you want to be friends with John, that’s great! But your approach needs to change. It would be better if you let go of him for now. I don’t know what exactly went on while you were dating, but you both obviously need more time to work through it on your own. And… if you need girl talk, I’m available.”</p><p>Something about Irene’s speech placated Mary. The girl nodded and met her eyes, the dangerous attentiveness ever-present nonetheless. “You have a point.”</p><p>“Sorry to disappoint,” Irene said, her business manners being replaced by something more tender. “ I mean no harm, but I hate one-sided pining as much as unreciprocated attraction. And you are a combination of both, I’m afraid. Exes rarely get back together, so your case isn’t unique in that aspect. As such, you should move on. Sorry. Just don’t think I did it to hurt you.”</p><p>Suddenly, Mary’s demeanor shifted to a more cheerful one. “Why, of course not! Don’t you worry, I’ve no grudge against y’all! I appreciate the honesty, and I’ll think about it. You… Your words do resonate. Thank you. Say hi to John from me, yeah? Tell him I’ll keep in touch.”</p><p>“Sure thing,” Irene promised, stepping back outside. “I meant the girl talk! Hit me up if you need me.”</p><p>“Oh I will,” Mary hissed once she was out of earshot. “<em>I most certainly will</em>.”</p><p>~</p><p>The room was dark except for the luminescent fairy lights hung up over four poster’s frame. The headboard was handmade by a man who excelled in his work, someone who owed Mary a favour some time ago. </p><p>Mary sat on her bed, surrounded by big, soft pillows; some fuzzy, others feathery. Due to the unwelcome occurrence of Irene Adler, she had fallen into a foul mood and cancelled the show prematurely. Not that these Reichenbach idiots minded. They obeyed her like sheep. That was about the only good thing about them. Gullible puppets.</p><p>Mary went through photos scattered on her freshly washed duvet. John figured on a few of them. Unknowingly, of course. She had taken them when he wasn’t looking. Frustrated, she threw them off, the glossy printed out papers fluttering in the evoken flutter of breeze, falling on the carpeted floor. Anger built up in her with every breath she inhaled. She clutched her pearl necklace, knuckles white from the pressure. Mary clenched her pristine white teeth, set her jaw and drew a phone from under her centremost pillow.</p><p>She dialed a familiar, yet cryptic number. The pink phone itself was a specialty of her contact, encrypted in such a way that it could not be traced easily by anyone. She kept caressing one of the pearls between her forefinger and thumb. Her contact picked up on the fifth dial. </p><p>“Coming back to me so soon?” a male voice swooned, obviously pleased, his accent soft and foreign. </p><p>“You said he would fall in love with me if I used the necklace!” Mary accused, her fury increasing. The necklace glowed yellow. </p><p>“My, my,” tutted the man on the other side, “getting impatient, are we? I said he <em>may</em>. The necklace is powerful, but maybe not as much as you had hoped, Miss Morstan.”</p><p>“It must be broken,” Mary insisted, the glow of her necklace growing. “Even the journal you gave me said it works on inferior minds much more easily!”</p><p>“I didn’t <em>give </em>you the journal,” the man’s silky smooth voice corrected, a hint of danger in the simple sentence. “I merely lent you the source. Don’t try to tell yourself otherwise, girl. Be smart.”</p><p>Mary gulped. He was right. She was getting a little ahead of herself. </p><p>“And anyways,” he continued and a creak of a chair could be heard in the background, indicating he made himself more comfortable, “the journal isn’t decoded fully yet. There may be more in it than we realise, Miss Morstan. Or should I call you Agra? You kids and your nicknames! Funny.”</p><p>“I want to know why the necklace isn’t working on John Watson,” Mary demanded, feeling the aggravation return. She glared holes into her wardrobe, the necklace shining again. “It should have, after all I’ve done so far!”</p><p>The wardrobe doors flew open with a <em>bang </em>and its contents spilled onto the floor. Some of Mary’s best dresses started shredding themselves as her heavy breathing subsided. The man on the other side of the call chuckled. </p><p>“You overestimate your comprehension of the supernatural in this town, Miss Morstan. But then again, you’re not the one to take hints.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Merely that you are incapable of seeing the obvious. The infatuation in this case, on both sides, is disgusting. I should back out of the deal before you only become a deadweight. This is getting tedious. Maybe you should give the necklace back, if you’re so unhappy with it.”</p><p>“No… please,” she rolled her eyes at her own weakness to plead. “I’ll keep it. I only anticipated something more…”</p><p>“Grand? Yes, I’m aware. Namely since the Club has already aided you grandly in order to make this possible in the first place. You’ve been naughty enough. Settle for the unknown for a while, Miss Morstan. The M Club accepted you for a reason, and you have the journal at your disposal. If my memory serves right, you were supposed to crack the codes down with its help, since you advertise your psychic abilities so much.”</p><p>Mary’s ego deflated impeccably. He was correct. Her primary goal was to work on deciphering the chicken scratch of a code dispersed throughout the mystery journal. The Club demanded faithful work, and it shall receive. </p><p>“I’m on it,” Mary said, letting go of her pearls and the dresses had finally stopped their self destruction, falling helplessly into one pile. “But we need the first journal as well. It may have cyphers that complete ours.”</p><p>“The search for the first journal is out of your duties for now, Miss Morstan. I trust that you will not contact me with your petty insecurities again unless it is about the codes.”</p><p>The man ended the call without a goodbye. Mary couldn’t care less. She placed the phone in its safe place and reached for her personal one. Indeed petty, she was. And even though the journal was a pressing matter of its own, she could deal with her <em>insecurities </em>in the meantime. </p><p>A quick search on social media delivered satisfactory results. Irene Adler had quite the revealing facts posted for the world to see, unassuming how useful they were for Mary. Despite Adler’s intentions which were fairly truthful and honest in her <em>wrong </em>opinion, Mary would not stand anyone between her and John. No, he was hers. She is <em>this</em> close to having him for himself once and for all.</p><p>Settling on a plan, she messaged Adler’s instagram account. She will deal with her first thing tomorrow. In the grand scheme of things, Adler was a useless casualty, John would not miss her. Mary even less so. And if the girl thought she could steal John from her, she was dead wrong. And they knew each other for how long, two weeks? Mary knew John for years. Adler is <em>nothing</em> compared to her.</p><p>Mary read the message she typed out one last time before sending it.</p><p>
  <em>Hi, thought about your ‘girl talk’ offer. Tomorrow at 1pm near the old mill south of town?</em>
</p><p>Her response was almost immediate.</p><p>
  <em>Sure! Old mill it is</em>
</p><p>Mary smiled to herself. It was an evil, self-satisfactory sort of smile. Plans were going accordingly.</p><p>~</p><p>Irene set out for a walk at half past twelve. She’d asked Mrs Hudson where the old mill was because she was the least likely out of the household to ask questions. The message from Mary took her by surprise -- maybe she judged her too soon… But still, she was pushy. That was unacceptable. But that’s what Irene was here for, guiding people to a better path and not being assholes without firm cause.</p><p>She didn’t bother telling Sherlock nor John she was heading out for the early afternoon. Both of them were discussing biology and chemistry, lost deep in their incomprehensible debate, so she let them be. After yesterday, when she came back in a celebratory mood, Sherlock and John both sagged in relief at the good news of Mary taking it alright. John was a bit wary, still, but put it out of his mind as soon as he set his eyes on Sherlock again. Irene caught Sherlock from the corner of her eye smiling at her timidly, though she didn’t get the chance to talk to him about it yet. He and John developed a theory about the missing author of the journal, so they put their minds to that matter. It served them right, letting their minds wander off.</p><p>And now, right after lunch, she sneaked out and headed south of the Shack through the pine forest. The scenery was colourful and full of life, breeze ruffling crowns of trees and flowers on small clearings, and the occasional squirrel let Irene know the forest was very active and blossoming with life as ever. Soon, vast wheat fields that had just recently begun to grow replaced the cool shadows and her skin bathed in warm sun rays. </p><p>Mrs Hudson informed Irene that the mill was on a small river and no longer used ever since the owner had died decades ago, even though apparently it was a picturesque sight to behold. The top of its roof appeared the moment that Irene reached the top of a medium sized hill, dust from the road sneaking into her shoes. She looked at the time: 12:55. She wasn’t late, thankfully.</p><p>Irene descended down the hill and picked up her pace so that she arrived precisely at one o’clock. No sight of Mary, however. Should she wait outside? She scanned her surroundings for anything that would indicate Mary already came there. Sherlock would undoubtedly pick up on clues already, but not everyone could be a Consulting Smartarse of a genius.</p><p>With a sigh, Irene decided to peek inside the mill. The structure was old, but stable. There were holes where the windows used to be, and it lacked the rotators (or whatever it was called, she was no expert) that spun on the water mechanism. She pushed an old pair of wooden doors open and walked in. </p><p>Curiously enough, she found Mary comfortably seated in a cushioned chair, facing the doors. She was dressed in a thin trench coat, pearls on her neck, hair done in a bun. Oh well. Irene had a feeling it would go to shit by the look on Mary’s face. </p><p>“Irene Adler,” Mary said courteously. </p><p>“Mary,” she countered, letting the door fall closed. The other girl had her hands comfortably tucked in her coat pockets, one leg thrown over the other. “You said you wanted to have a girl talk, so I am here.”</p><p>“Of course,” Mary flashed Irene a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “I thought about what you said about me and John.”</p><p>“Oh? And?”</p><p>“You’re wrong. He knows what he wants.”</p><p>“Yes, and it’s not you.”</p><p>Mary’s nose twitched. “Oh, is that right?” she growled, pushing herself to stand up, but keeping her distance. Irene instinctively took a defensive stance. “Everything was fine until you waltzed in! John is mine, but you had to step between us, didn’t you? You turned him against me!”</p><p>“John is not a toy you can own,” Irene said sternly, lips a thin line. Of course it went to shit. Her feeling about Mary turned out to be right -- she was batshit crazy. “What do you expect would happen if I weren’t here? That you would guilt trip him and corner him into obeying you? You are well aware that John is too nice to you despite your history with him to say no.”</p><p>“You don’t know John the way I do! You don’t know the history we have!” </p><p>“I know him better than you. You think you’re something special? Sorry to break it to you, sunshine, but you’re far from special. You keep calling yourself an ‘Absolutely Gorgeous Reichenbach Angel’ but you know what? To me you are an Absolutely Gross Rambunctious Asshole. You’re a fake.”</p><p>Mary fumed, nostrils flared, one hand shot up to touch her pearls. “Listen carefully, <em>Adler </em>-- you have no idea what you’re playing with here. This town and I have far more resources that are beyond your comprehension and understanding to try your luck!”</p><p>“You think I’m scared?” Irene challenged, arching an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t underestimate me.”</p><p>“Likewise,” Mary’s expression darkened, and her pearl necklace glowed bright yellow as she raised her hand upwards the way she did during her show when the audience stood up. Before Irene’s brain registered the change, she was already lifted from the ground and thrown to the side into dry hay. </p><p>Irene huffed on impact -- thankful for soft landing -- and she tossed hair out of her face to see Mary walking up to her. “How did you --”</p><p>“Still think I’m a fake, dear?” Mary said sweetly, crouching. Irene wanted to punch her in the face, wipe that shit-eating grin right off of her, maybe break her perfect teeth too. She spent ages styling her hair this morning!</p><p>Sooner than she could answer, Mary lifted her in the air again, the snake-like look in her penetrating death glare present once more. </p><p>~</p><p>John sat on the porch, sunbathing. Or so he told himself. He and Sherlock went through second-year medicine chemistry and biology together. John noticed Sherlock’s textbook yesterday before he and Irene left and brought up the subject earlier today. Sherlock had a copy of a fourth year chemistry university textbook, claiming he was always ahead of everyone else. Plus, this was fun for him along with the science of deduction. John didn’t doubt it, seeing how well Sherlock understood the subject and how graciously he explained the concepts and  topics John had failed to grasp during the school year. In turn, John walked him through his ‘beginner’ medical knowledge. Sherlock absorbed the information like a sponge, saying it would be useful to have this knowledge at future crime scenes. </p><p>And among their gruesome discussions that John enjoyed a lot, he found himself falling for Sherlock. Faster. Harder. It was simple, really. But how do you raise this debate without coming off too strong? Sherlock seemed to like John, but was it just him being a bro or was he correct in his assessment from the s’mores night? He wasn’t going to lie to himself here. Since that first day on the second of July, something sparkled between them, from the moment their eyes connected. Like a deja vu of sorts, and it felt magnetizing. Being around Sherlock was… good, for the lack of superlatives. </p><p>But now, with this whole Mary mess, John felt drained. He felt conflicted about his selfishness and weakness that prevented him from acting on his own. Irene was adamant about dealing with it, and at first it seemed like a great idea, but… Nevertheless, the problem was his, not hers. </p><p>Then why couldn’t he face Mary and say a simple no? It frustrated him to no end as he racked his mind up about it. He didn’t recall being this antsy over Mary, ever. Even during or after their breakup. But why bother? Maybe this was a problem that had to do with his upbringing; there weren’t many times when he was allowed to say no and stand up for himself when it regarded interpersonal relationships. Perhaps it grew into a habit in a couple areas of his life. However, he was over Mary, and apart from this small inconvenience, she had no power over him. Never had. He won’t let this fiasco weigh him down. </p><p>John heard the doors behind him open and close. Kate sat on her knees down next to him, taking out a pocket mirror and a red lipstick. </p><p>“Hey Kate,” John said, sounding miserable. He felt it, to be honest. Sherlock went to hide away with a microscope (<em>‘I found a half-rotten biscuit, John, I have to look at it! It will take me a few hours, don’t wait up, but you’re welcome to join me at any time.’</em>), so he could afford to let his guard down. </p><p>“Johnny boy,” Kate returned warmly, popping her lips. Suddenly, an idea came to him.</p><p>“Kate -- you date girls,” he said, propping his elbows on his knees. “How do you say no to them?”</p><p>Kate squinted at him, lips pouting, as though he admitted to sleeping in a furry costume. Then her face smoothed out and something similar to a smirk replaced the disgusted expression. “Do you want to sleep with me?”</p><p>“What?! No!”</p><p>“There you go,” Kate smiled, satisfied with herself. “Easy as that.”</p><p>John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Jesus, thanks. I wouldn’t have guessed.”</p><p>“Probably not, since you asked. Why, though?”</p><p>“Just figuring something out,” John replied, waving a hand. </p><p>“If you don’t want girl hitting on you just say you’re gay.”</p><p>“Huh? No, it’s not about that either -- and I’m bi! That’s not what troubles me in the least.”</p><p>“Okay. But it’s always the strongest card to play, remember that, Johnny boy,” Kate winked at him and stood up to fish out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to John. </p><p>“No, thanks. Those things’ll kill you, you know,” he wrinkled his nose at the smoke she exhaled through her nostrils. </p><p>“I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it,” Kate said, shrugging. John didn’t bother pointing out that wasn’t exactly how the idiom went. </p><p>The doors opened once more, Mrs Hudson’s friendly voice greeting them. “John! There you are. Did Irene tell you when she’s coming back?”</p><p>“She’s not here?” John asked, dumbstruck. Then again, he and Sherlock were so inebriated in their science debate he wouldn’t put it past them to miss Irene leaving the Shack. For John, Sherlock took up space in every room they were in. No offense to Irene.</p><p>“Irene went out to see the old mill south of town,” Mrs Hudson informed him, worry flashing across her wrinkling face. “You didn’t know?”</p><p>“No, but it’s alright,” John said, though his heart skipped a beat. Why would she be at the mill? “I can go get her.”</p><p>“No need, I was just curious whether she’d make it to dinner or not,” Mrs Hudson said, returning back inside. </p><p>Huh. The old mill occupied a secluded spot by the river, not much of a tourist attraction. But from an earlier debate that took place after midnight the other day, John knew Irene was once a scout and loved hiking. She’s probably getting some fresh air and exploring on her own. Not bad, the forest and the mill are not hidden and it’s easy to get back on track. If anything, she’ll call or send a text. </p><p>Not having a thing to do, he got to his feet, coughing when Kate’s cigarette smoke flew into his nostrils. Kate giggled, apologising, and he returned inside. He didn’t think he should ask Sherlock out today. He had to wait for the perfect opportunity. Or divine timing. Whatever worked. Well, while he waited, he could as well join Sherlock and his half-rotten biscuit. </p><p>~</p><p>Irene’s heart pounded, blood rushing into her head and ears like a wild river. Her ankles pointed to the fragile ceiling, and Mary undoubtedly planned to do something ominous to her. <em>Think, think!</em> What would distract her? No small talk. She had to shit-talk her way out of this fuckery. Her eyes caught a glimpse of a play ball (who the fuck left it there?) mere inches from her. If she stretched her hand, she’d get a hold of it. She had to distract that crazy woman. Irene took her chance, grabbed the ball, and threw it at Mary. She screamed and let go of her pearl necklace to catch the incoming item of offense. Irene fell on the floor, breath knocked out of her lungs. </p><p>“How <em>dare</em> you!” Mary snarled, throwing the ball back at her, pettiness an obvious personality trait of hers. </p><p>“Hey look!” Irene wheezed, pointing at nothing in particular behind Mary as she regained her sense of balance and gravity. “John’s here!”</p><p>“What? Where?” Mary swiveled around her own axis, panic betraying her cool features. Irene pushed herself on her knees, evaluating her options. In the free split second, she made a decision. And then Irene threw herself at Mary and pulled her to the hard floor, both of them screaming bloody murder. Irene hooked her fingers around the pearl necklace and <em>snatched</em>, tearing it apart. It held itself intact enough, save for one pearl that rolled off the chain. </p><p>But there was not a moment to spare; Irene and Mary were now engaged in a full-on girl fight full of hair pulling, unfair kicking, and throwing the other at an unstable wooden pillar that held the ceiling together. Mary grabbed Irene by her wrists and attempted to throw her across the room, but Irene dragged her along, both of them slamming into the weakest support beam. They stopped dead in their tracks when a loud crack one-upped their screeching, and the ceiling gave out. </p><p>They screamed and ducked in vain effort to shield themselves from the falling debris, but nothing hit them as anticipated. They looked up, trembling. Irene realised it was thanks to the necklace that glowed bright yellow, woven between her fingers, that the mill didn’t become their grave. </p><p>“Out,” Irene gasped, knees buckling. “Out! Right now! Go!”</p><p>She roughly pushed Mary to the exit, catching a sight of the pearl that rolled off. She pocketed it, dashing out. The moment her feet met the safety of the outside under the blue summer sky, her focus dissipated, and the roof collapsed in on itself. A dust cloud covered them like an ocean wave, both women coughing their lungs out. </p><p>Once it settled, Mary charged at Irene again, planning to steal the necklace back. Irene, however, foresaw the move, ducked, tripped the cray-cray bitch and crushed the pearls into powder by stomping on them using the soles of her shoes. Tints of smoke trailed out of the dust towards the blank sky.  </p><p>“<em>NO</em>! What have you done?!” Mary squealed, eyes widening. Where did she get it in the first place? </p><p>“I saved our lives, <em>bitch</em>,” Irene glared, supporting herself by leaning on her knees. “You’re welcome, by the way.”</p><p>“I have nothing to thank you for. You ruined my chances with John! Do you seriously think he’ll date you for long?”</p><p>“What? Where did you get the idea that I <em>date </em>John?”</p><p>“Oh, <em>please</em>,” Mary rolled her eyes ruefully. “Why else would you come to me? Trying to tell me John wants to be friends? You want him for yourself!”</p><p>Irene stared at her, left eye twitching. If it weren’t for the absurdity of this situation and the fact they could’ve died two minutes ago, she’d laugh in her face. <em>She’s a lesbian for fuck’s sake! </em>“Listen here, you delusional cun--”</p><p>“Shut up!” Mary shrieked, stomping her foot in the grass. Honestly! How could such a child run a successful business? She’s plain ridiculous! “Shut up, or I’ll….”</p><p>“You’ll what? Dress me that awful pink dress of yours? Really, it doesn’t even go well with your tanned skin! That pink! Skedaddle out of here, Mary. You’ve made enough of a clown out of yourself. Go home, and leave John alone.”</p><p>Mary backed up and regarded Irene with a superior look. “Oh, don’t think this is over. This isn’t the last y’all see of me.” She darted out to God knows where, but Irene gave zero fucks.</p><p>Christ almighty. Shock and adrenaline still present in her bloodstream, Irene tracked her way back onto the field path. The round surface of the pearl she pocketed before the mill fell felt smooth on the pads of her fingers. She stopped. Should she crush this one too? Huh. She had no way of knowing where Mary got this. Did she have a journal like they did? If yes, that foretold problems. For a while, she debated whether she should tell Sherlock and John about this encounter, but decided against it. John had enough stress already, she needn’t add to it. It could marr her matchmaking plans, and that wouldn’t happen on her watch when they were <em>this</em> close. No. She’ll keep it a secret and watch out. The pearl could be to her advantage if Mary tried new tricks. </p><p>Shoving the pearl back into her pocket, she nodded to herself. And if John or Sherlock asked about her horrendous state of clothing, she’ll say she met the deer junkie and ran through the forest. </p><p>Fuck this day.</p><p>~</p><p>The night was warm, but Mary’s hands were cold as she copied an equation on a blank piece of paper, not understanding it. After the failure of today’s confrontation with Adler, she thought this would keep her mind calm and steady. It did the exact opposite -- it enraged her even further. </p><p>She put the pen down and stared at the out-of-season drapes on her windows before going to lie on her bed. This was indeed not over, oh no. She only just got started. If Adler thought she was petty, then she didn’t know Mary very well. But that’s alright, she’ll learn where her place is sooner or later. She needed a nudge in the right direction, is all. Preferably in that of stakes, swords, or other deadly means.</p><p>Right now, though, she wasted too much time on her. She has the rest of summer to figure out her revenge. She had a deal with the M Club to fulfill. She grabbed her encrypted phone and called her other contact, a convenient prawn, albeit a right prick. </p><p>“Moran,” she said cheerily when he picked up. Then her tone changed to a serious one. “Pack your gear, we’re heading out tonight.”</p><p>There were locations in the journal lying open on her pillows that needed to be explored. John will wait, but the task will, unfortunately, not. For now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I bet Mary just became a lot more threatening in yall's eyes &lt;3 and there will be more eventually!<br/>New episode (number 5!) airs on the 10th, and things between John and Sherl will finally get a lot more interesting! Also, there'll be a new person I'll introduce. Hint: the episode is called A Nightmare at the Opera. Can you guess why? :) bit of a word play right there~<br/>Also, I gave Mary the necklace at first as a nod to canon ACD, where when Mary was introduced, I believe she either had or was supposed to have apearl necklace that would grant her some financial security. It's been a while since I've read it, but nonetheless, it's a faint reference. </p><p>Stay tuned folks!<br/>Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 5.12. 2020<br/>Word count: 5080<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee who's got some bangin's fanart ofor RF in the works: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. A Nightmare at the Opera I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a Johnlock Roulette </p><p>episode 5, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello peeps! I'm writing this while I'm half-paying attention to my russian seminar where we're checking homework, I'm an impatient git. But we're starting a new episode, there's no wonder I'm impatient to post it!<br/>You'll like this one, I bet &gt;:D<br/>Thank you all for reading, we're going at the speed of liiiiiiiiiifeeee~ <br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee, who coincidentally got Lucifer's waterfalls at around the same time as me. Fun-not-fun. Also TMI.<br/>Enjoy the episode!</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Kate! Are you even listening to me?” Greg snapped his fingers at the girl who was currently deeply immersed in her fashion magazine <em>Preposterous</em>. Kate frantically stood up, back rigid akin to a soldier’s, her black curly hair bouncing up and down, and she saluted her employer for good measure.</p><p>“Sir! Yes sir!” she said, doing her best not to burst out laughing. </p><p>“Great, cool,” Greg grunted. He buttoned up his suit jacket and patted down his hair in the reflection on the window behind the cash register. “I am giving another tour and Mrs Hudson is repairing the bathroom pipes up in the house. Mop up the leaks, will you?”</p><p>“Absolutely not, sir!” Kate half-yelled, grinning. Greg had enough strength to roll his eyes and get on with it. </p><p>“At least put up a sign the floor is wet. Ta.”</p><p>He left for the museum the moment Irene strolled in in high spirits. She was wearing a dress with kittens in various poses chasing numerous types of fish. She also carried a box full of leaflets advertising the Shack (all useless and cheaply manufactured, but they kept up appearances). </p><p>“Morning, Kate,” Irene said, letting the box fall on the floor in a loud thump. A couple leaflets flew out, one getting stuck in the dripping from the leaking pipes. “What’s up?”</p><p>“Well, since you just took care of putting up a sign about the wet floor for me, I’d say it’s time for a break!” Kate hopped onto the counter, tossed her legs over and landed on the customer side. There won’t be anyone in the gift shop for at least another hour and the cash register was safely locked. She wasn’t <em>that </em>irresponsible. Money loss for Greg meant a smaller paycheck for her, in the end. She put an arm around Irene’s shoulders and led her to the back room where the cleaning supplies, mops, and brooms were stashed. “I’ll let you in on my work secret. See that ladder over there?” She pointed at an unambiguous grimy ladder screwed to the wall. </p><p>“What about it?” Irene looked at Kate, intrigued. She never gave it a second thought, what might be above the small room. Kate climbed it and pushed the trapdoor atop it open, revealing the brightening sky above Reichenbach Falls. </p><p>“You’ll see. C’mon, up we go!” </p><p>Kate hauled Irene up on the last two steps it would take her to get up on the Shack’s questionable roof. Fortunately, she was wearing sneakers, so her feet had less chance to slip on the (occasionally mossy) roof tiles. Kate led her on a relatively narrow path meant for upkeeping around the Shack’s roof. As they turned the corner under the attic room, a shriek from Mrs Hudson made Irene flinch and lose her balance. Kate barely turned in time to stabilise her, strong for the both of them. </p><p>“Girls! I swear you’re worse than John and Sherlock! What are you doing up there?” the upkeeper shouted from below, clutching a wrench. The baseball cap she wore to keep her curly hair out of the way shielded the upper part of her face from the scorching sun. </p><p>“Just sightseeing, Mrs Hudson!” Kate waved at her, and the woman scowled. </p><p>“I swear, teenagers these days ask for hospital visits,” they heard her mutter as she walked back inside to finish the pipes. </p><p>The girls shared a laugh and they finally made it to Kate’s spot, passing John’s purple and yellow bedroom window. This part of the roof had a window facing the front yard with the improvised dust road parking lot, and the roof above it was levelled. There was a flagpole a meter off from the window waving a pirate flag for the tourists to see. </p><p>“I never understood why Greg put it up,” Irene said, pointing at the black and white flag. </p><p>“Me neither, but he switches it in June for pride flags,” Kate said proudly. There was a purple deck chair and an umbrella duct taped to it so that it provided shade. “Oh, and he also switches it for the Canada flag on the first of July. Ya know, since he’s Canadian.”</p><p>“French Canadian,” Irene corrected, happy to know that Greg didn’t shy away from putting up the other flags too. She recalled the Canada flag when they came here, but she paid it little attention then. “So this is your safe haven?”</p><p>“Yeah, like what you see?” she gestured at the view that unfolded in front of them. Oh, Irene did. Kate’s seat and umbrella were far enough not to be seen from the yard, since it bypassed Irene and even Sherlock (or at least he didn’t mention it yet). This was the perfect quiet spot. </p><p>“I do,” Irene purred, picking up a flower petal that stuck to a crease in her dress. “How often do you go here?”</p><p>“Let’s see,” Kate’s nose wrinkled and she tucked her feet under her butt. “I may or may not sneak up here when my job gets boring… all day, every day.”</p><p>“I’m not blaming you. Do you time it according to Greg’s tours?”</p><p>“Yeah. I must admit that it’s easy to do this when he’s business focused. And if I get caught, I just say I used the restroom. Or that I needed to change my tampons, which scares him away.”</p><p>That got Irene laughing. “Brilliant. You thought of everything.”</p><p>“Thank you, thank you,” Kate smiled in the shade. “I’d bow for good measure, but my legs are dead.” She numbly forced them to plop down on the roof, tapping them with her hands so they’d wake up quicker. “Oooh, it tickles! I hate getting ants.”</p><p>Irene giggled and let her gaze wander over the surrounding forest. Birds chirped happily in the rich crowns of trees, although when Irene thought about it, she could ask Jake to translate some of that gibberish for her. </p><p>Oh! Jake! She hasn’t seen him in two days! She ought to visit him soon, and the dolls as well. She promised to bring over some books so that Will would teach Jake how to read. In turn, Jake would write down ideas for what Irene could potentially bring him. She’s got to go there at the earliest possible opportunity. </p><p>The revving of a car engine snapped her out of her thoughts. Kate’s legs woke up at last and she walked to the edge of the roof to look down. A minivan pulled up, one dirty window rolling down. A guy’s head peeped out and up, waving at Kate. </p><p>“Coming, K?” he called, other voices echoing the question from inside the van. </p><p>“Wait up!” Kate yelled in response, nudging Irene towards the pole. “You can slide down first.”</p><p>“Won’t I burn my hands?”</p><p>Kate looked Irene over head to toes, smiling slyly. “Nah, I’ll show you how to do it!”</p><p>And with that, she jumped at the pole, grappling onto the pirate flag and down she went. Irene gasped in horror, a hand shooting up to cover her mouth. But Kate was alright; the rope used for hanging up the flag tensed two meters above ground and Kate used the momentum to swing on the green lawn, landing in a crouch on her knees. She stood up, dusted herself and pulled the flag up for Irene to use. </p><p>“Don’t overthink it,” she advised, squinting up at the roof spot. </p><p>“Easier said than done,” Irene mumbled, talking herself into the craziness these Americans seemed to embody. What if the flag tore? Or the rope? Or her grip wasn’t strong enough? Would the fall kill her? Injure her? Invalidate her? She shook her head to dissipate these thoughts. She could refuse and return the way they arrived. But Irene was no coward, even less as strangers observed the scene. </p><p>Irene sucked air in through her gritted teeth, put her feet into a running position, and took off. One, two, three, jump! She squinted but didn’t close her eyes to see when to catch the black fabric. Fingers wide and stretched, she held onto it for dear life as she felt gravity pull her down. She pulled her knees up since she was wearing a dress, forcing some of the fabric to cover her thighs from the way physics worked. </p><p>Then, a violent tug as the rope got stuck made her swing forward, rocking her from side to side. “Whoa! I could use some help here!” Irene said, the panic in her voice obvious. Thank God Sherlock wasn’t here to see this. </p><p>She heard Kate chuckle and immediately she felt a grab on her ankle as Kate steadied her. When Irene looked down, she realised the ground wasn’t that far. </p><p>“Do you want me to catch you?” Kate asked, arms open. Irene let go of the pirate flag on her own, landing into a crouch as well smoothly. Her aired sneakers helped. Kate smiled approvingly. </p><p>“Tell Greg I needed to buy pads if he asks,” she said, walking to the minivan where her peers cheered her on. “I’ll be back in half an hour!”</p><p>Irene waved, turning to the flagpole to return the pirate skull in its rightful place. She wondered where John and Sherlock were right now. Her watch displayed eleven o’clock (so, Kate shouldn’t be on lunch break for another hour, but alas), and the Shack was suspiciously quiet, save for Greg’s muffled exclamations in the museum. Recently, he brought in a taxidermied wolf with antlers drilled into its rear end, advertising it to tourists as ‘the devil’s evil carnage carriage’. It sold well. </p><p>In the hall she stumbled upon Mrs Hudson whose cap was now soaked through, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was organising her briefcase in which she stored her screws and wrenches of all sizes. </p><p>“Have you seen Sherlock and John?” Irene asked the upkeeper, leaning against the wall. </p><p>“They rushed out the back door twenty minutes ago as you left with the leaflets,” Mrs Hudson replied. “Sherlock apparently wants to take samples of dirt and mud, and John, naturally, tagged along. I don’t think they’ll be back any time soon.”</p><p>“That’s nothing new with Sherlock,” Irene smiled fondly. Sherlock and his experiments -- at least he had someone to talk to about it now. Even better that John took interest in it too. Or maybe not the dirt so much as Sherlock… “We still haven’t bet on them.”</p><p>“Trust me, I think about it at least once a day. It depends on quite a few factors, I’m afraid.” </p><p>“I call it the Johnlock Roulette because they are unpredictable, the idiots. Any estimation? In days, perhaps?”</p><p>Mrs Hudson kept filling her equipment away in silence in a calculated manner. Irene’s blue gaze followed her precise movements, playing with her nails. They needed to be redone.</p><p>“Today is the seventeenth of July,” Mrs Hudson said eventually. “The soonest I’d say somewhere in August. At the beginning. Or perhaps sooner, but that may depend on fate.”</p><p>“Hm. That’s a reasonable estimation.”</p><p>“Thank you. And your guess?”</p><p>“I’m still thinking. To me it looks as though these two had met before. There just <em>is </em>the chemistry between them. They’re so natural around each other it ticks me off to see them both play dumb-dumbs and hesitate.”</p><p>When she looked up to meet Mrs Hudson’s eyes, she found something akin to sadness in her gaze, a tiny lopsided smile on her thin, dry lips. “Of course there is chemistry between them,” Mrs Hudson cleared her throat, looking away. Irene thought for a moment she saw the woman’s eyes glass over, but she was probably overthinking this. </p><p>“Right. What does Greg think?”</p><p>“We can ask him after the tour is done,” Mrs Hudson said, closing her custom-made briefcase. “He is going to be stuck with the group for another half hour, and I have to clean up in my shed.”</p><p>“Alright, I’ll meet you then!” Irene agreed and rushed upstairs. The guys were out for who knows how long, she may as well use it to her advantage and go see Jake. She changed outfits for more comfortable shorts and a slightly oversized t-shirt that once belonged to her dad. It had a tour of The Beatles printed on the back, the font faded due to frequent washing and years of use. </p><p>Irene purged through her belongings trying to find something suitable for Will to use as teaching material. Too bad there weren’t scripts for how to teach racoons the alphabet. </p><p>She dug through her suitcase, even now half-full, and found her notepad and a bunch of ballpoint pens. That will do for the writing part. She doubted her teen magazines would do much good, and she had no desire to explain pop culture to the dolls and Jake at the moment. She should have a book around here, somewhere…</p><p>Aha!</p><p>A copy of <em>Good Omens</em> by Neil Gaiman sat inconspicuously under the bed, a yellow t-shirt masking the cover’s lower half. Irene chuckled to herself. She’d seen the show and read the book over hundreds of times. Or not. She lost count. </p><p>She picked up the book, deciding that it was the perfect literature of highest order to introduce to a sentient racoon. Plus, it gave out enough existential crisis to develop his critical thinking, too! Two in one!</p><p>Gathering the necessary things, she trotted downstairs, checking the corridor for intruders. Once she was certain the air was clear, she dived under the porch. Irene got more proficient at crossing the distance to get to Jake’s pocket universe room every time she stopped by. </p><p>Dropping inside, Jake greeted her immediately. “Irene! I missed you!”</p><p>“Hello, little bugger,” Irene patted him, his shiny fur soft under his fingertips. She waved a hello to the dolls, Will being the most enthusiastic, though the Hulk seemed to be warming up to her. And Pocahontas… she watched like a hawk. Not that Irene blamed her. She and her land probably had seen enough white people to last forever. </p><p>“Yo, how are we, Irene?” Will said, skipping over to them. “We were just reenacting some scenes from Fresh Prince, wanna see them?”</p><p>“Maybe later,” Irene assured them, kneeling down. “I brought you something.”</p><p>“Ooh! Is that a book?” Jake exclaimed excitedly. He hopped on Irene’s thighs, his back burrowing into her t-shirt. His paw grazed the cover lightly as Will peered closer. </p><p>“Good Omens? Hell yeah! I loved that show last year!” he said, seating himself into a cross-legged position in front of Irene. </p><p>“You watched it? But you were locked in the room upstairs for years!” Irene frowned. </p><p>“Yeah, I know. Thing is, the curse binds me to the REAL me. It’s a complicated deed, but that’s the jist of it. I still know what’s going on as if I were my fleshed-out meaty self.”</p><p>“Never say the words ‘my fleshed-out meaty self’ ever again,” Irene said, doing her best to erase what she heard. “And alright. I guess that makes sense. So, you know what’s going on with the story. I don’t have anything else available, or lighter, for that matter, for Jake to read. But I also brought papers and pens for him to practise the alphabet. That should keep you busy for a while.”</p><p>“It’s perfect, Irene!” Jake said, twisting his neck to look at her. He bared his teeth in an animal effort at a smile. “You’re the best human ever. I’m so glad you didn’t spray me with that smelly can the other day.”</p><p>“Me too, Jake,” Irene returned his smile, handing Will the study materials. “Careful with the book. If I find one corner bent, I’ll bend you.”</p><p>“Noted, ma’am,” Will said, waving the book in the air before putting it on the only blanket in the room. They’ll have to get a table here. Or a box. Or generally a narrow surface that isn’t the ground. And more blankets; it was chilly in here, since it was technically underground -- and also its own separate universe. </p><p>“Do you want to see us reenacting the TV show now?” Jake asked, beetle eyes filled with hope. Irene focused on her own reflection in his dark irises, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. </p><p>“I can’t stay much longer, Jake,” she said apologetically, stroking his grey back. “Sherlock and John are out and I’ve no clue when they’ll be back. Can’t risk them seeing me emerge from under the porch. I didn’t know I’d go here today, either, until I learned they’re out of the house.”</p><p>Jake’s ears dipped, sad but understanding. He hugged Irene around her neck and murmured into her collarbone, “It’s alright. Thank you for keeping our deal and not telling them.”</p><p>“I’m nothing if not a woman of my word, little bugger,” Irene told him affectionately, hugging him softly in return. “I will watch your performances in due time, don’t worry. Keep practicing until then, okay?”</p><p>“Of course. And we can do some Brooklyn-Nine-Nine, too!”</p><p>“Sure! But only if you do Peralta.”</p><p>“I thought that was already decided,” Jake snickered, hopping down and scratching his ear with his rear paw. “Will will play Captain Holt, Hulk can be Terry, and Pocahontas can be Rosa!”</p><p>“Whatever you four agree to do,” Irene said, looking each of them over. Pocahontas was altering between doing squats and pushups. Hulk took to a sheet of paper and pen and started drawing stick figures while Will propped Good Omens in his lap and got to reading. “That’s decided, then. I’ll try to get you a bed and a table in here, somehow. That’s our first goal and then you can write me a shopping list.”</p><p>“Okay! See you, Irene!” Jake hugged her calf one last time before running over to Will. Irene yelled them goodbye and climbed out. Thankfully, no sign of Sherlock or John in the front yard, nor of tourists or Greg. </p><p>The former were currently seated in Irene and Sherlock’s attic room, analysing dirt samples from various areas across the forest. Irene heard Sherlock’s rapid monologue, categorising the variabilities and unique distinctive properties aloud to John. She was positive that he could battle Dave Strider and Eminem with how fast he talked. Hm. The potential was immense, who would win? Maybe the universe wouldn’t be able to handle those two arses in a face-off. </p><p>“It’s the colour, John!” Irene heard Sherlock say, his excitement evident from his pacing. The floor creaked under his feet, the wood trembling under his lanky figure. “The moisture in the air and minerals in the soil impact the colouring, isn’t it fascinating? And then, maybe the magical flora and fauna has an impact -- no, it must have -- on how the dirt and mud look like!”</p><p>“Getting a green thumb, are we, brother?” Irene stepped inside, leaving the doors wide open to create a draft. The room was too hot. Blood hell -- the whole world was. Sherlock stopped mid sentence as he rattled on about another dirt sample, glaring at her. </p><p>“Get out,” he said sulkily. He pouted, crossing his arms defensively. “You’re interrupting.”</p><p>“No she’s not,” John said from where he was lying on the ground, hands folded under his head as cushions. Irene had only now noticed he was lying on the floor, feet up on Sherlock’s bed. </p><p>“Yes, she is,” Sherlock argued, whirling around to glare at John too. “She doesn’t appreciate science the way you or I do, John.”</p><p>“Doesn’t mean she can’t be in the same room as us,” John said in a singsong tone that meant that the debate was over. Sherlock huffed, defeated, and walked over to his bedside table to get the journal, falling onto his mattress next to John’s feet dramatically. “Oh, come on! She’s your sister, not an alien. Be nice.”</p><p>“Step-sister,” Sherlock corrected automatically. He took a pencil out of his curls and added a note to a random page. “And I <em>am </em>nice. I could always tell her to piss off.”</p><p>Irene rolled her eyes, trying not to be hurt by that cold statement. Why was it so important, the word foregoing their familial status? </p><p>John’s apprehensive look made Irene force a chuckle. It didn’t matter. “It’s fine, John. <em>Step</em>-sibling banter, nothing else. I am going downstairs anyway. I need to settle a bet with Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>That piqued Sherlock’s curiosity. He narrowed his suspicious blue-and-green eyes at her, thinking hard. Irene gave him a sweet, cheeky smile full of false innocence. </p><p>“A bet on what?” he asked, closing the journal. He dropped it on John’s feet, who yelped at the sudden weight on his shins. They both looked at her quizzically. Sherlock sure had a feeling about what, but she won’t tell him. It would only ruin her plans as a professional matchmaker. </p><p>“What Disney Princess Greg is,” she lied partially. That was another thing in their pool. They planned on asking Greg questions from an official Disney quiz to find out. But that was a long shot. She smiled widely at their confusion, grabbing her newest magazine and retreating into the hallway. Sherlock didn’t appear to be convinced after the shock had passed, but he didn’t comment further. Crisis averted for the time being. </p><p>“I say Rapunzel!” John shouted after her, eliciting a low chuckle from Sherlock. Irene took that into consideration. But now she, Greg, and Mrs Hudson needed to settle the Johnlock bet.</p><p>In the kitchen, the aforementioned adults waited, Mrs Hudson resting on a chair, her feet up on the cushioned seat of a chair diagonally across from her. Greg was rummaging through the fridge, grumbling that there’s nothing to eat. </p><p>“Oh dear, you shouldn’t be so surprised,” Mrs Hudson tutted, smiling at Irene as she stepped over the threshold. “There’s three more people living in the house.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m used to buying food for two or three,” Greg hummed, head burrowed in the chilled box. “Eugh, there’s mould in the back behind the olive jar. When did I even fucking <em>buy </em>olives? I hate those pseudo vegetables. It was a fucking fruit last time I checked, it should stay that way and stop fucking false advertising.”</p><p>“Language, Greg!” Mrs Hudson said, mildly aggravated by the vulgarity, but Greg was nonplussed and continued on his tirade cussing out olives. Irene snickered and went to pour herself apple juice, sneaking an arm behind Greg who noticed it and yelped back, hitting the back of his head on the frame of the fridge. Mrs Hudson sighed. “Serves you right, you uncultured Canadian.”</p><p>“If you want culture, there’s still the olives. I’m <em>not</em> touching that fuzzy green shit,” Greg grumbled, rubbing at the sore spot. “Jesus, Irene. You sneaked in like a cat.”</p><p>Irene gave him an apologetic grin. “Sorry, I’m thirsty. But hey, maybe leave that mould to Sherlock? He’ll be thrilled to have something to analyze!”</p><p>“Why mould, of all things?”</p><p>“It’s Sherlock. He likes rotten pseudo vegetables.”</p><p>“Jeez, I don’t get kids these days. I’ll see, maybe I’ll throw the whole fridge out and get a new one instead. I have to go grocery shopping.”</p><p>“Always resourceful, Greg,” Mrs Hudson shook her head, asking Irene for a glass of juice herself. Irene poured her the rest of the carton, sipping at the amortentia of life. Apple juice is love, apple juice is life. </p><p>Greg closed the fridge at last and leaned his hip against the kitchen counter. He looked ragged and tired, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than yesterday. Irene didn’t recall a single day when she saw him well-rested. Was he insomniac? Perhaps. Or it was his age. She wouldn’t know, she’s young and beautiful, and not Greg (no offense). </p><p>“So, I heard you have a bet in mind?” he asked, nodding at Irene. He clasped his hands when she confirmed, a devilish smirk curling his lips. “Excellent! Gimme details.”</p><p>“I want to join too!” Kate shouted, flouncing in in what was very much her style, curly hair bouncing up and down. Wow, she got back pretty fast. The clock displayed 12:56. </p><p>“I thought you were supposed to be on your shift,” Gregg arched a stern eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Because you know, that’s what I pay you for.”</p><p>Kate waved a hand and excused herself to fish a packet of chocolate chip cookies from a cupboard. “I’m hungry. If I make a correct bet, you’ll pay me even more. So, what’s the deal?”</p><p>Three pairs of inquiring eyes looked to Irene for answers. She coughed into her fist, trying to put on a business persona. “So, as we all know, the two oblivious twats upstairs are head over tits for each other.” The rest of them agreed eagerly. “Right. But we’re not blind, and we can see that things are shifting between them, right? Of course. So I thought we’d make it more fun and get a pool going on. I call it the Johnlock Roulette.”</p><p>“Oooh! You gave them a ship name!” Kate clapped excitedly, spitting crumbs everywhere. </p><p>“A ship name?” Both Greg and Mrs Hudson frowned, but then Greg’s face lightened up, understanding dawning on him. “Oh, I think I know. That’s what you do when you like two fictional people and want them to be a pair?”</p><p>“Yep! Wow, I didn’t expect you to know, to be honest,” Irene said, tilting her head in admiration. </p><p>“I didn’t, John told me,” Greg acquiesced, pointing a forefinger at the ceiling. “He may have mentioned the pairing of Doctor Strange and Iron-Man here and there.”</p><p>Irene looked at Kate, whose jaw dropped. “<em>John is a shipper too? Bro!</em>”</p><p>“I know!” Irene squeaked, and she and Kate held each other by the elbows as they jumped around in a circle. She wasn’t all too familiar with this ship -- iron-strange, was it? -- but whoa. In that case, she may convert John to shipping davekat one of these days if she convinces him to read Homestuck with her… “Alright, alright. Lemme calm down. Oof. This is good news, but back to my original topic. When do you guys estimate Johnlock is going to happen?”</p><p>“In what sense?” asked Greg, observing Irene closely. As if she were supposed to remember something. Weird. </p><p>“Anyhow you imagine it to play out,” she said, one shoulder lifting. “Who’s going to ask the other out on a date first, when that’s going to be, where it’s going to happen…. There’s a lot to consider.” </p><p>“I say that John asks Sherlock out today,” Kate said, making Greg snort. </p><p>“Yeah, right. As if the last ti…. Hm, well. Who knows. I think it’ll take a bit longer than that.”</p><p>“Don’t underestimate the power of love, Greg. And neither of tarot readings, I watched a video and it agrees with me.”</p><p>“I’m not underestimating your guess. Just sayin’ these two are slower than snails.”</p><p>“Hm, I think they’ll admit the love factor by the end of summer for sure,” Mrs Hudson added thoughtfully, looking at her joined hands under the table. Greg’s forehead creased, and his eyes jumped from object to object. </p><p>“That’d be for the best, wouldn’t it?” he said quietly. </p><p>“So what do you think, then, Greg?” Irene asked, a bit perplexed by how they got on the topic of love so fast. Greg considered it for a while. </p><p>“Let’s say they end up together by the end of July,” he said at last. </p><p>“Nothing more specific?”</p><p>“John’s the one who initiates.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Mrs Hudson quipped, sipping her apple juice. The precipitation rolled down in beads off the clear glass. </p><p>“Alright,” Irene nodded, taking notes in her notepad app. “So all of us bet on John asking Sherlock out first. Good. Kate says it’s today, Greg says by the end of July. You have to specify a date.”</p><p>“Why? Eh, fine. I’m bullshitting this -- sorry, Hudders -- but uhm…. Fuck it, I’m betting on July twenty-fifth.”</p><p>“Weird flex, but okay.”</p><p>“You said I had to tell you a date, I did.”</p><p>“I’m not complaining!” Irene said defensively, which in turn made Greg put up his hands. “Just that of all the dates, you pick this one. Curious. What about you, Mrs Hudson?”</p><p>“I say…. That they declare their love for each other sometime in the last week of August,” the upkeeper said, finishing her drink. Greg offered to take it from her and washed it in the sink. </p><p>“That’s kinda cute,” Irene smiled into her phone, marking it all in the app, fingers flying across her screen. “A bit ambitious, but I wouldn’t call it impossible.”</p><p>“Of course not, dear,” Mrs Hudson winked at her, but a set of worried lines stayed in the corners of her mouth. “And what about you?”</p><p>Irene stopped to think. Hm. With these two idiots, anything was possible, really. “I think what Kate said is a bit of a stretch --”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“-- but I’m siding with Greg. It happens before the end of July; I say on the twenty-seventh. As far as declarations of love go, I think the day we go back to Canada sounds about right. You know, horny guys and all that.”</p><p>“Too many details!” Greg said loudly, fake covering his ears. “I do <em>not</em> need details of my nephew’s sex life, thank you very much. That topic is <em>forbidden</em>.” Irene giggled, as did Kate and Mrs Hudson. “Anyway, you unruly women, how much do you place on this bet?”</p><p>“Fifty, and you’ll double it if I’m correct and Johnny-boy asks Sherly out today,” Kate said in all seriousness, giving Greg a daring, pointed look. They stood there, eyes locked. It reminded Irene of old school cowboy movies, but with less dramatic cuts focused on their stares, less sand, and marginally less death threats at their heels. </p><p>“Alright,” Greg said eventually, lifting both eyebrows. “I’ll make it fifty too. Irene?”</p><p>“Twenty.”</p><p>“Hudders?”</p><p>“I will  contribute cupcakes to celebrate the occasion nonetheless.”</p><p>“Excellent!” Greg cheered, the deal sealed. “Keep your eyes open, everyone. The Johnlock Roulette is officially on!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So much for a 'cold open' fellas. Hope you liked it!<br/>More is coming on the 15th of December, folks, stay tuned :) we'll meet a new group of people!</p><p>Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 10.12. 2020<br/>Word count: 5000<br/>My humble tumblr: <a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee who deserves all the love: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a><br/>And finally, Tumblr of Dee, who made some pretty neat-o moodboards for Irene and Sherlock!: <a href="https://ipromiseimnotaspy.tumblr.com/">ipromiseimnotaspy</a><br/>The trio is now complete :D</p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. A Nightmare at the Opera II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a new crew</p><p>episode 5, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Bonjour peeps, I'm back with a new chapter! Also, I'm sick af (not covid, don't worry) so that's why I'm posting relatively later than I did for the past few times<br/>Eh, I feel better than yesterday for sure at least so no worries<br/>Thank you all for reading! Have some ibuprofen/paralen and black tea <br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee who sent me Marauders memes that helped ease some of my nausea <br/>Enjoy the chapter!</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John tinkered with the settings on his phone to connect to Kate’s portable red bluetooth speaker. Her own phone ran out of battery, so he became the new DJ by succession. He cheered when it connected and tapped on his music app to select shuffle and let the grooves begin. </p><p>‘<em>Killer Queen</em>’ by Queen played and Kate moved around the gift shop, broom as her microphone as she lip synced the song. John hopped onto the counter, giggling. He got to counting the newly earned cash; there was nothing else to do. Greg went grocery shopping, cursing that the stock of his favourite chocolate bar has depleted. John counted the money and whistled. Five-hundred dollars. Not bad! Given that it’s half past six in the afternoon and they had a lazy day, somewhat…. </p><p>The doorbell rang, and the doors closed with a snap. As he looked up, a warm smile spread across his face. Sherlock and Irene came in, both a little sweaty and flushed from the heat. Sherlock’s hands were dirty, almost black from the fertilizer soil Mrs Hudson made him put in her flowerbeds while Irene was supposed to water the plants. John usually helped the upkeeper, but Sherlock offered, claiming that he didn’t take samples of dirt from around the Shack yet, and this was a good opportunity as any. Irene was a bit more reluctant (lazier) to help, but they managed. </p><p>“Kate, since when do you sing?” Sherlock said loudly over the music. Kate, who swept and swayed across the floor in dramatic strides, sang along to Freddie Mercury before bothering to answer. </p><p>“Ever since I could speak,” she said, winking at him and Irene. She disappeared between two isles featuring postcards and figurines, her siren-doom voice not leaving the gift shop. </p><p>“And yet she had no singing lessons,” Sherlock grumbled, grimacing painfully as she failed to hit a note. Even John flinched at that too, while Irene smacked Sherlock’s arm. </p><p>“Be nice, Holmes,” she scolded him, but she also gritted her teeth when Kate continued on with her ghostly wailing. John heightened the volume to maximum. That offered small relief and a lot of sound waves vibrating through their bodies. “Why don’t you show us how to sing then, you smart-arse?”</p><p>“You sing?” John asked, Sherlock averting his gaze to the windows in embarrassment. </p><p>“I decidedly do <em>not</em>,” he clipped, exhaling sharply in exasperation. </p><p>“Oh, please,” Irene rolled her eyes, leaning against the cash register. She leaned in closer to John as if she were about to share a dark secret. “You seriously don’t think I can’t hear you sing in the shower? Your voice is so deep even whispering sounds like thunder! Admit it, you sing. And your singing is <em>good</em>.”</p><p>“I do not sing!”</p><p>“You do. You’re a theatre kid at heart.”</p><p>“I merely recognise quality music across genres.”</p><p>“Uh-huh. So you’re saying I don’t have a video of you practicing <em>‘Popular’ </em>from Wicked in my gallery?”</p><p>John thought for a moment Sherlock was going to murder Irene on the spot. Daggers weren’t the only thing he threw at her mentally, John was sure. Probably a handful of lightbolts and a murderous Disney Princess doll, too. Ew, that memory was still fresh in his memory. </p><p>“You’re bluffing,” Sherlock glared at his sister. He stood closer, looming over her with all his height as he wiped his hands clear using a towel he located near the counter. John, of course, noted how tall he was since the day they met, but Sherlock intimidated only when he chose to, and the gesture with the towel had a slightly menacing effect. </p><p>Irene had none of that shit. </p><p>She arched an eyebrow and raised her chin defiantly, broadening her shoulders, similar to a bull about to charge at its toreador who waved a red cape in front of it. “Am I? Or would you like to see for yourself?”</p><p>The staring contest between the two of them was unbearable, but John couldn’t pry his own eyes away from them. He didn’t understand why Sherlock was making such a fuss out of singing -- it’s fun! But his recent experience with Mary and how she put him on the spot made him sympathise. He better diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand.</p><p>“Alright, time out, you two,” he said, hopping off and sliding in the space between them. He also selfishly used this chance to touch Sherlock’s arm as a peace sign. It did have some effect on taming them. “I don’t see what the deal about you singing is Sherlock, but that’s your problem. Irene, don’t put him on the spot. If he doesn’t want to, he won’t.”</p><p>The siblings both picked up on the silent, icy threat under the deceptive calm words and broke eye contact. Their being flushed wasn’t only due to the hot weather and the gardening prior. John felt satisfied. </p><p>They were so immersed in their useless brawl that neither heard the songs change until Kate came in and turned the speaker off. She pocketed it and looked out the window. The trio followed her wordlessly as a minivan parked in the front yard. Five people emerged from the minivan, four men and a woman dressed in black shorts and purple crop top. </p><p>Kate walked out to greet her friends, Irene in tow. Sherlock shot John an unsure look, as though he didn’t know what was expected of him at that moment. John patted him on the arm, nodding to the group of people gathered outside. Kate already introduced Irene to them.</p><p>“I know them,” John said, hand wavering near the doorknob of the gist of the shop. “I sometimes hang out with them during summer. They’re cool. Let me introduce you?”</p><p>He phrased it as a question in order to give Sherlock the chance to back out in case he felt uncomfortable. Sherlock pondered for a brief moment but shrugged and took a hesitant step towards John, a mask of indifference slipping into place. A bit unusual to see it there. John flashed the siblings a smile and led them out where an old acquaintance yelled his  name. </p><p>“Watson! We thought the Queen prohibited you from leaving the Shack or something,” a chubby boy named Mike Stamford grinned, leaning on the minivan. The vehicle belonged to his mom. </p><p>“Nope, just busy,” John said, fistbumbping him. “Sorry, Greg needs help around the house constantly these days. I see you’ve met Irene, Billy.”</p><p>Billy Wiggins, a guy almost as tall as Sherlock, tried to chat up Irene rather animatedly along with Eddie Van Coon, a guy who sported dreadlocks better than anyone else John met. Billy was even thinner than Sherlock (and that was something to say) and had a wild caveman vibe about him, though friendly enough not to come off as creepy. A good soul among wretched teens these days. </p><p>Billy whipped his head around to wink at him. “Mister John, sir!” he said in a serious voice imitating a British accent -- rather poorly. He shook John’s hand vigorously, almost snapping it off with a sheer, playful force. “Nice weather, innit? Impeccable, I’d say! Blimey! You look admirable, young man! Serving the Queen alright, aren’t you?”</p><p>His dreadful delivery of his mind’s interpretation of a ‘funny greeting’ got a chuckle out of John and the others. John looked at Sherlock, whose lips also quirked upward, but he stood a little off out of their circle, still uncertain whether he was welcome or not. </p><p>“I see you’re still an obnoxious pain in the arse, mate,” John said to Billy, pronouncing each word in the most British way possible, probably embarrassing himself in front of Sherlock like a right idiot. Billy bowed to his mightiness and authority as though he were a well-bred Briton. </p><p>“You’re both unbelievable,” Mike shook his head, checking his wristwatch. “You still haven’t said who your friend is, John.”</p><p>John dragged Sherlock closer for everyone to see (letting his hand rest on the small of Sherlock’s back), not completely missing Irene’s smirk. “This is Sherlock Holmes, Irene and him are step-siblings. And he’s really fucking smart so don’t try pulling pranks on him, he’ll know what you’re doing.”</p><p>A guy named Sebastian Wilkes snorted. “Sherlock? What kind of name is that?” </p><p>John never really liked him.</p><p>“I think it’s a cool name,” Mike and Eddie said together, high-fiving. Eddie looked Sherlock over head to toe, ignoring Wilkes’ eyeroll. “What does it mean?”</p><p>“Fair haired,” supplied the other girl in the group, Sarah. She shrugged without sparing them as much as a glance from her phone screen. “Googled it.”</p><p>John laughed at how confused Sherlock seemed. This group dynamic and its flow was sometimes too quick for John as well, but he could withstand their energy for short amounts of time. Not that he didn’t like them, no. But they weren’t exactly someone who he could feel like himself one-hundred percent of the time. Not like with Sherlock or Irene. But they were fun, on the occasions when Kate dragged him out of the Shack to socialise. Except for Wilkes. He remained a stuck-up dickhead. He constantly tried to hit on Kate, ignoring the fact that she was a proud, beaming lesbian. </p><p>“Still,” Wilkes pressed on from where he sat  in the backseat of the opened sliding doors of the minivan. “Who names their kid Sherlock? Is that a British custom?”</p><p>“Is it a custom in America to be a prick?” Irene clipped, beating John and Sherlock to it who both prepared a comeback on their own. Something about Irene and her demeanour made Wilkes take the hint and shut up. The others in the group laughed at that, and Wilkes silently fumed and stared at his phone. Irene cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock and John, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. Sherlock smiled back, approving. Ah, nothing better than British sibling solidarity. </p><p>“What do you do around here?” Irene asked, eager to see in what ways young adults spent their free time in the town. Eddie took to explaining.</p><p>“Seb, Mike, and I have a band,” he said, flashing her a grin. “Sort of. We practice often now that it’s summer. But we don’t have a singer --”</p><p>“I could sing,” Kate offered, only to be immediately shut down by everyone present. She scoffed, but took it all in good grace. </p><p>Eddie moved on. “Anyway, yeah. That’s what we do. We play about everything from the Beatles to Rammstein. Currently we’re going through a few songs from Queen, but as I said, no singer that could pull off Freddie Mercury. Ah, do you know what it would be to have the honour to play with him? I bet we could get a gig at Speedy’s or at some other club in town.”</p><p>“Quit simping about Freddie, dude,” Seb told him, snickering at Eddie’s dreamy stare into the sky. </p><p>“Says you who simps over any female glancing your way,” Sarah commented, not bothering to lift her gaze from her phone screen. That earned her another round of applause and uproar, and Wilkes sulked on the side.</p><p>“So,” Kate said after Eddie was done laughing his ass off, “we planned to go into that old theatre at the end of town. Are you coming, John?”</p><p>John scratched his neck, stuffing his left hand in his jeans pocket. “If Irene and Sherlock go as well, sure.”</p><p>“Of course they’re coming,” Kate said, hugging Irene around the shoulders. She turned to Sherlock. “You are, aren’t you?”</p><p>Sherlock resembled a deer caught in headlights. He blinked, shifted on his feet, not meeting Kate’s gaze. John hoped Sherlock would agree. It would be better with him there. He looked to John for an answer, and he let his shoulders rise and fall, letting him decide. He wouldn’t pressure him. Irene also remained silent. </p><p>“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest, shoulders slumping forward. “I’m not exactly an extrovert.”</p><p>“Oh, c’mon,” Eddie nudged Sherlock enthusiastically. “It will be fun! There’s a rumour going on that the theatre is infested with evil spirits and vampires!”</p><p>John knew that would weigh things in favour of Sherlock joining, in the end. He watched him consider it, lips pouting. There was a spark John grew to recognise in the past two weeks. It meant that Sherlock, sensing the potential adventure, was definitely <em>in</em>. And so were John and Irene. </p><p>“Vampires, you say?” he repeated, absolutely interested. </p><p>“Yeah! The more people we have holding stakes to stab them with, the better!”</p><p>“Alright, if you’re decided, let’s get going, then,” Mike interrupted, pointing a thumb at the minivan. Sarah was already perched on the passenger seat. “Mom said she wants me to be home at eleven-thirty at <em>latest</em>, and I don’t want her to get angry.”</p><p>Once everyone was seated (Irene next to Kate and Wilkes right behind Mike; Billy, John, and Sherlock in the back) Mike assessed them in the rearview mirror. “One more thing -- mom said you’re not allowed to jump on the seats anymore.”</p><p>As a response, Kate, Sarah, and Eddie cheered loudly, jumping on their respective seats. Mike sighed and turned the engine on, the car bouncing on the road. As they exited the Mystery Shack property, John saw Greg’s car passing by. Cursing himself, he drew out his phone and texted him their whereabouts in case he worried (which he would).</p><p>When done and sent, he was delighted to see his flustered Sherlock getting smaller and smaller in his seat as Billy tried to engage him in a conversation. Sherlock cast him a sideways glance, internally screaming for help. John snorted and listened to Billy’s inquiries. If only he could lean in and rest his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder… </p><p>“Are you from London? Could you teach me your accent? It’s frickin’ cool, man! And your voice! How is it so <em>deep</em>? Are you in the same uni as John? What do you study?”</p><p>After each question, John’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Sherlock angrily shoved an elbow aimed at his ribs, but John caught it and held it in place, close to him. Sherlock stiffened momentarily and John let go. Shit, did he take it too far?</p><p>Sherlock cleared his throat and John forced himself to stare at the blurred trees lining the road. He didn’t even know if Sherlock was <em>that </em>interestedin John. Or if he was interested in him -- or anyone -- in<em> that way</em>. Asexual and aromantic people were valid, and yes, it’s a spectrum, but he can’t exactly whip out the question without seeming suspicious, can he? Hope died last, but truth be told, this must’ve been mostly his mind playing the ‘overthinking’ card. </p><p>Over the past few days he paid closer attention to Sherlock and his reactions to him. So far, upon any minor touch or brush of skin, Sherlock looked away or froze for a split second, and then life went on. Was John coming on too strong? Surely Sherlock would tell him if he found it bothersome, he always voiced his discomfort to Irene or Mrs Hudson. And to John too, but not in relation to anything that took place between them. That could be considered a good sign. John even used Sherlock’s more recent observations for deduction: dilated pupils and elevated heart rate to indicate attraction. The pupils, he noticed. Quite often. But then again, he wasn’t an aspiring detective but a layman student left to his instincts and hopeful heart longing for love.</p><p>“Yes, I am from London, but I grew up in Sussex. I’m afraid I can’t teach you ‘my’ accent, seeing as you’re already abysmal at basic pronunciation, but there may still be a chance for you. My voice is merely a result of biology, and yes, I do study in Toronto like John.”</p><p>“Yeah, my pronunciation is shit,” Billy agreed good-naturedly. “That’s why I asked, but it’s alright. I’ll just observe you, then.”</p><p>Something about that statement made Sherlock’s lips quirk up, getting his interest. John liked that smile. <em>Very </em>much. “Suit yourself.”</p><p>“What about uni, then? What do you want to do after?”</p><p>“I’m undecided. There is not a major for what I’d want to pursue. Not now, anyway.”</p><p>“Oh, what is it? You seem sorta mysterious to me, but you don’t seem like the type to be a secret agent.”</p><p>John waited for Sherlock’s answer. He sounded hesitant and avoided the question at first. Finally, he replied, “A detective. I plan to be a consulting detective. The police are out of their depth a lot. I’d… help. I hope.”</p><p>John peered over Sherlock at Billy, who listened intently. He nodded and gave him a thumbs up. “That’s gotta be tough, man. What will you do? Look for clues?”</p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>“Cool!”</p><p>John chatted Billy up after that, seeing as Sherlock seemed pretty clueless (no pun intended) on how to continue his unexpected socialisation. The rest of the ride passed pleasantly as Mike drove them to the theatre. Irene enjoyed herself just as much, listening to Eddie’s anecdotes and Wilkes’ bragging that everyone knew to be bullshit. </p><p>The evening prospects looked promising. </p><p>~</p><p>Greg kicked the doors in, hands full of paper grocery bags. Mrs Hudson has left for the day earlier, needing to go home and tend to her garden. Greg was fine with it, the Shack wasn’t busy anymore. He stumbled into the kitchen, throwing the bags down on the table. He hastily jumped after the torn bag of oranges that rolled out of one bag, threatening to spill its contents. </p><p>He called out to the kids but no reply came. Sighing, he started unpacking the shopping. They were up to something again. The other day he discovered a mouldy bite-sized lasagna piece glued to the windowsill in the spare bathroom downstairs, which Sherlock had begged him to leave there for future analysis. </p><p>Discombobulated, Greg had permitted the disgusting abomination to remain there, reminding Mrs Hudson not to get rid of it. She’d raised her eyebrows at him, surely thinking him insane, but nothing fazed her anymore after working in here. Eleven years and counting. He may call Sherlock to take a look at the mould in the fridge after all.</p><p>He thought back to earlier that day after he’d ended a tour. Mrs Hudson had called him into the kitchen where she awaited him patiently, and moments later Irene had trotted downstairs to join them, and Kate as well. </p><p>What ensued was a thorough explanation of the great Johnlock Roulette bet, as Irene named it. Not that it didn’t suit it -- it was the perfect name for such a ridiculous thing. But it was hard to say how things would go. Greg’s prior experience with such betting… That was two years ago, his last bet. Who knows how this one would go in this particular, semi-cursed situation? These two were always an enigma. Hence ‘Roulette’. </p><p>Greg had agreed with Mrs Hudson it may happen in August, but in general, his personal opinion dictated that it could become sooner. So, he said it would happen on the twenty-fifth of July. But nonetheless, the bet was on. Now they had to stay put and wait. </p><p>With the groceries tucked away in cupboards, Greg at last fished his phone out of his trousers. He had a message from John. </p><p>
  <em>Sup old man, Kate and Mike invited us to hang out in town, be back at 11 or sooner</em>
</p><p>Greg sniffed at the term ‘old man’ -- he was thirty-seven, for God’s sake! Involuntarily, his mind remembered Irene’s suggestion that he dyes his hair silver. <em>‘It’s greying anyway,’</em> she and Mrs Hudson had said. <em>‘You’ll be a silver fox,’</em> she had said. As if he needed to date. The sheer idea of dating made him dry-retch. Never. After his last partner’s disappearance… He better not think of that. It would feel like cheating. It <em>would </em>be. He’d stay loyal till the end of his life. That was decided, no matter what came of it. </p><p>He quickly wrote a reply and sent John a text back. </p><p>
  <em>Git, I’ll show you an old man when I whack you with a stick. Take care and don’t get the cops involved. Have fun!</em>
</p><p>John sent him a reply: an emoji sticking out its tongue at Greg. Greg relented by sending him a sticker showing a green alien sitting on a unicorn. </p><p>
  <em>Okay I’ll never call u an old man again, just dont send me stickers pls</em>
</p><p>Victory!</p><p>Greg sent him one last sticker saying ‘OK’ and put his phone down on the counter to let it charge. Grabbing a can of soda out of the fridge, he made his way to the living room, kicked off his shoes and socks and splayed on the sofa like a heathen. </p><p>No one bothered to turn the TV off. Great. None of these punks pay the bills, why be considerate of other people’s money? Typical. Ah, to hell with it. </p><p>There was an ad on about a protein shake invented by one Mr Ripper (a right tosser, in Greg’s opinion) from one fucking atrocious town over. Stuck-up assholes, the lot of them. </p><p>Greg wriggled on the sofa to find a more comfortable position. He propped himself up on a pillow (bearing the image of the Union Jack) he harboured for fifteen years. It held many good memories. Greg opened the soda with a <em>pop </em>and sipped the fizzy liquid. It tingled his taste buds, tasting of lemon. And chemicals. Eh. </p><p>The advertisements were interrupted by a show, as shocking as it may be. Greg narrowed his eyes at the program lying on the coffee table, but he couldn’t see shit from where he was lying. He thought the channel stayed on sports, but…</p><p>Fancy rich music filled the air as the camera revealed gardens, moving around the grounds of a castle. Greg groaned and put the soda can down. He patted the sofa for the remote, but it was nowhere to be found. Greg cursed whoever misplaced the remote control, wishing them to step on LEGO. </p><p>“Last episode, on <em>The Just King</em>,” the narrator said, Greg pinching the bridge of his nose. “The king Justinkopnik Lesterkriknik faced an ultimatum from his soon-to-be-ex-fiancée, Alkantira Fakyou Shukeera. The castle grounds are sponsored by Pípí-púpú.”</p><p>“Where the fuck is the remote?” Greg swore, flailing his arms helplessly. He sat up, spilling the can, which in turn made him swear even more. “God fucking DAMNIT!”</p><p>He promised himself he would never, ever, EVER AGAIN watch this TV show. How was it still on, anyway? It ran like, what, the fifteenth season? Did the actors even age? </p><p>The narrator blabbed on, setting the scene. Greg’s left eye twitched. He didn’t want to risk a binge-watching addiction right now. Last time it happened he almost threw the TV out the window after he was left on a cliffhanger at the end of the season. </p><p>“Fucking amazing,” he muttered, not having the energy to look for the remote. He really hoped the git who lost it stepped on Lego. Or a Lego castle. While running on a treadmill. Greg liked the show in its early stages, but he dropped out soon enough not to become obsessed, but his happy days were over. He remembered the initial plot and characters too well for his liking. Especially the King’s conservative mother grinded his gears. If there was a character Greg wanted to die or go off the show, it was her.</p><p>The narrator spoke his final lines. “And now, king Justinkopnik Lesterkriknik has to face one last issue,” the music intensified, the camera picked up from the ground up, showing the audience first a pair of feet with fancy black heels, then a black dress which Greg recognised, filled with dread, and the narrator finished, “<em>his mother</em>.”</p><p>“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”</p><p>In other words, Greg lost his shit. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's the crew. Also, I enjoyed giving Greg a breakdown over a TV show. He has many aspects of reactions from me. I'm Greg. <br/>Next update on the 20th! Stay tuned, folks~</p><p>Feel free to comment and chat &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 15.12. 2020<br/>Word count: 3991<br/>My humble tumblr<a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a><br/>Tumblr of Bee who sent me some Phineas and Ferb memes as well: <a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a></p><p>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. A Nightmare at the Opera III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is breaking and entering</p><p>episode 5, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi peeps! Here's a delivery of another chapter~ we're halfway through this episode! <br/>Shit's getting interesting!<br/>Thank you all for reading! Have some stale nachos today &lt;3<br/>Special thanks to Bee who recently got her driver's license and Dee, who recently got a bit brain fried with theories about this fic &gt;:3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mike parked on the curb opposite of a tall, grimy building in desolate condition. The lowest windows were shattered or had boards nailed over them to prevent people from entering alternatively. There was a half deconstructed marquise hanging above the sidewalk, the board in it devoid of any letters that once foretold the evening programme. </p><p>The theatre building resided on the edge of the town, a small alleyway linked by a fence to an unassuming, ruined barber shop serving as the only things connecting it to Reichenbach Falls officially. It cast long shadows on the barber shop and the surrounding area under the sun’s orange rays, the flaming giant departing for the day and yet leaving a lingering warmth in its wake. </p><p>“That’s the vampire lair,” Irene commented, unamused. She rubbed her temple, catching Sherlock’s eye in the reflection. </p><p>Sherlock shrugged, observing the theatre quietly from his seat. He survived Billy’s plethora of questions, somewhat dodging them before John took over with his social skills. Billy didn’t seem to be put off by Sherlock’s attitude, which was interesting and, frankly, a bit unnerving. That got balanced out by Wilkes, a complete idiot in his own category who brought a certain whiff of familiarity when it came to disregarding Sherlock outright, no attempt made to find a common ground. Not that it shocked Sherlock.</p><p>“Yep, and we’re getting in,” Eddie said gleefully, urging them to leave the minivan. </p><p>“Get your stakes ready, everyone!” Kate said, shutting the doors behind her. “Figurative and literal, if applicable.”</p><p>The group trailed to the entrance like ducks in a row. There were no barricades or nailed planks that would prevent anyone from entering through them, so Wilkes and the rest presumed that it would be an easy job to get in.</p><p>“How about we do a big entrance?” he suggested, puffing up his chest like a proud peacock. He kept glancing over at Kate and Sarah, outstretching his arm to push the doors open. “Hey! Cullens! Time to die --”</p><p>Wilkes’ attempt at a grand entrance tripped over a hitch called lock. The doors wouldn’t budge and he essentially nose dived into the sturdy obstacle, crying out an ‘Ow!’ as he crumbled to the ground faster than a house of cards. </p><p>John couldn’t contain his laughter, and neither could the other boys and Irene. Kate at least looked a bit sympathetic, and Sarah stayed focused on her Twitter threads about the Kardashians (Sherlock saw it in the window reflection on their way here). </p><p>“Shut the fuck up, I want to see <em>you </em>dickheads open it!” Wilkes growled, regaining his composure. “Idiots. As if I could know it was locked!”</p><p>“You could’ve been more sensible about it,” Sherlock said, amused by how Wilkes’ arrogance played him. “The doors are the first thing homeless people or robbers go for. They’d be long gone if there wasn’t a mechanism from either side holding them in place.”</p><p>Sherlock quickly assessed others’ reactions: Irene and John fist bumped inconspicuously, Mike, Eddie, and Billy seemed mildly impressed by his stating of the obvious, Sarah kept tapping on her screen, and Kate tilted her head like a curious puppy while Wilkes rolled up his sleeves as though preparing for a fight. Sherlock registered out of the corner of his vision that John took a step closer. </p><p>Wilkes, however, didn’t escalate his exasperation further. He merely frowned at Sherlock with revulsion, not bothering to hide his dislike for the curly Brit. “If you’re so smart, <em>Posh Boy</em>, why don’t you open it?”</p><p>Silent anticipation thickened the tense atmosphere further. Kate and the group looked from one to the other as though they were attending an intense tennis match. Pfft, Wilkes has no idea what he’s set himself up for. Of <em>course </em>Sherlock will get them in.</p><p>“Sure,” he shrugged nonchalantly, leaving the spot under the marquise. He bumped John’s shoulder to follow him, he needed to be suave. The rest except for Wilkes followed them off to the side where the metal fence separated the sidewalk from the alley. There was a thin green fabric clinging to it, obscuring their view of the alleyway in the dusk. Sherlock looked at John, hitching his eyebrows. “There’s a ladder leading up to those weird balconies serving as emergency exits. We can get in through one of these, I’m positive. Help me out?”</p><p>John answered by pursing his lips together, a tug at the corner of his mouth a sign of his knowing why Sherlock remained so composed. Apparently he also found Wilkes inane and birdbrained. John put his palms on top of the other, bending his knees slightly for Sherlock to use as leverage. Sherlock shook his head, telling him to go first.</p><p>“You’re shorter,” he explained, ignoring John’s bewildered blinking and Mike’s snort, “it would be harder for you to get proper momentum to jump over the fence.”</p><p>“I could ask one of these,” John gestured towards his friends watching them from under the marquise. His tone sounded resigned, but held no bite as he shot Sherlock a grin. “You little shit, everyone’s shorter than you! Get on with it, then.”</p><p>Sherlock mimicked what John was about to do for him in order to get in the alley, huffing as he lifted part of John’s body weight. One rattling of metal fence and a dull thump of feet on firm ground later, John told Sherlock he can follow. Sherlock, having experienced a similar situation when climbing a fence was required (angry dog owner, long story) dug his fingers in the fence holes. His height here served to his advantage and he propped himself higher by using the barber shop’s wall as leverage. It didn’t even cross his mind to ask Mike or Billy or Eddie to help him; he sort of tuned them out for the most part, what with being unfamiliar in their setting and being quite socially awkward around his peers in general. Sherlock opening his mouth around people usually didn’t yield satisfactory results and often ended up in a form of physical assault on his person, though that mostly happened in secondary school.</p><p>Sherlock hooked his left leg over, hands gripping the smooth railing. The fence trembled under his weight slightly, the motion throwing him off balance and his right leg got stuck momentarily. He lost his grip, fingers flexing in a vain attempt to hold onto the metal. He pinched his eyes closed, breath caught in his ribcage awaiting the hard contact with dirty ground under him. Instead, he collided with something soft but firm, John’s strong arms letting him slouch back, both feet scraping against the metal fence as the balls of his feet hit the ground painfully. </p><p>Panic surged through him. He swallowed, realising how close he was to John. He had his back pressed to him. <em>Shit</em>. Not wanting to be more embarrassed than he already felt, he hurried to stand up on his own, apologising. He was glad to have left his suit vest at the Shack. He dusted his blue shirt off of invisible dirt particles and met John’s gaze. </p><p>“Long legs are convenient, huh?” John teased, grinning even more when Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. He let Sherlock rush past him in mock annoyance, laughing warmly. “So, what’s the plan?”</p><p>Sherlock inspected the metal balconies above. Fortunately, the ladder leading to the first floor was let down. Easy job, then. A bit disappointing. He really hoped the theatre was infested by blood-sucking vampires now, just for the excitement and adrenaline rush.</p><p>“The theatre is three storeys tall, I’ll run to the top and check the doors there, you check the middle. If neither opens, we try the first door here.”</p><p>Anticlimactically enough as it was foretold by fate, neither of the above opened. John already gripped the doorknob on the first door when Sherlock joined him, turning it to the left and pushing. Locked. Sherlock internally groaned for leaving his lockpicks at the Shack -- he should’ve known it could come in handy. But who would’ve guessed he’d be dragged along to a vampire hunt? </p><p>“What now?” John asked, kicking the firm obstacle with the tip of his shoe. Sherlock planned to do just that. He saw it in movies, and the general principle dictated that you have to kick near the doorknob where the lock was for this to be effective. </p><p>Sherlock leaned his weight on his hands that grasped the metal railing behind them, telling John to back up. The limited space on the balcony proved to be essential for this task; Sherlock didn’t have to stretch out much. Hoping not to embarrass himself even further than he already had in front of John, he braced himself and kicked the doors in. The doors flew open with a bang, creaking in its hinges. John let out a whistle -- impressed. Sherlock considered it a victory. That’ll show Wilkes. </p><p>The boys entered, lighting their way using their smartphones. Together they navigated downstairs, keeping close to one another. Even though they were both skeptical about the vampires hiding in an old theatre building, one could never be too sure in Reichenbach Falls, such was the truth. And Sherlock selfishly walked perhaps a teeny bit too close to John, ignoring the thundering beat of his heart.</p><p>A loud noise of something heavy falling startled Sherlock, his body going rigid, pressing even closer into John’s personal space. He instinctively grabbed him by the wrist as he stepped further from the source of the noise. John aimed his phone in its general direction, but the light beam met nothing but a plank that fell lifelessly to the ground that raised a cloud of dust in its wake. </p><p>“Must’ve been the wind,” John muttered while walking towards a panel with fuses. </p><p>Sherlock followed suit, unconsciously holding onto John. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at John’s typical horror-movie-oblivious statement. He was right, though. They <em>did </em>just kick out a door open -- that must have caused some disruption in the equilibrium of the air sealed inside and that of the outside. </p><p>They both inspected the fuse box. It must be connected to a generator of sorts -- that is, if the circuits still work. Sherlock kept his phone light on as John pulled a random lever down. Something clicked and rebooted, the lights coming on seconds after. </p><p>“We’re lucky,” John smiled at Sherlock, and then glanced at the vast hall that was uncovered before them at once. “I don’t think any of us would fancy exploring this building like we’re in Outlast.”</p><p>Sherlock sensed he had made a reference to something unknown to him, so he refrained from commenting, letting a ‘hmm’ vibrate in his throat. He yanked his hand back apprehensively from where he held John’s wrist, muttering a ‘Sorry!’ as he stepped sideways. </p><p>“We should probably let the others in,” he said hastily, retreating to the front of the hall. <em>Great job, Holmes</em>, he thought to himself. </p><p>He avoided looking at John, focusing instead on putting one leg over the other. When John’s response got to him, it seemed as if he were completely unaffected. That was some relief, but deep down Sherlock hoped for a bit of confoundedness. John, the ever-standing mystery to Sherlock’s tiny heart, followed him unperturbed. This has been going on for days (not that he minded) and for Sherlock, it was like oxygen. The more accidental little touches passed between them, the more he needed, craved. This, however, was neither the place or time to nitpick at his internal conflict. </p><p>They came to the barricaded front doors, hearing the group’s muffled chatter outside. Sherlock filtered them out, observing what could be done. No mechanism blocked the entrance per se, even though that was his initial speculation. Instead, there were racks used as props to hold the doors in place. </p><p>John mirrored Sherlock on the other side of one such rack; they gripped the pole and wriggled it to loosen it a trifle. The talking on the other side subsided upon hearing the audible exertion both boys exhaled with each movement. With a last grunt they loosened the last rack from where it was stuck and John tossed it aside. Sherlock pulled the doors back to let the group in. </p><p>Chants and cheers filled the hall as everyone (except Wilkes) patted him on the back for a job well done. </p><p>“I knew you’d do it!” Kate said, rushing past him with Sarah to explore the inside of the theatre.</p><p>“I never thought I’d get in, thanks guys,” Mike said, strong hand patting Sherlock on the shoulder rather forcefully, throwing him off-balance. Eddie fist bumped John and prodded the grumpy Wilkes further into the hall. </p><p>“Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff!” Billy awed, throwing himself over Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock huffed, completely taken aback by the display of uncalled affection. “I knew you could do it! Ever since you said you’re a detective in the car!”</p><p>“I’m not --”</p><p>“You deserve a cool nickname -- from now on, we’ll call you the honourable name of Detective Shezza!”</p><p>“That’s not really --”</p><p>But it was too late for amends. Billy had already skipped over to Eddie and the two started chanting in eerie unison, “De-tec-tive! She-zza! De-tec-tive! She-zza!”</p><p>“Seems like you made new friends,” Irene chirped up. Her look was smug and satisfied. She probably missed her many social outlets in Toronto. Irene had no problem blending in most of the time, unlike Sherlock. Even though he had to admit -- besides that Wilkes fiasco, he seemed to be doing… better? Compared to his high school experiences back in England and the occasional verbal sparring in Canada, that is. That didn’t mean he welcomed clingy Americans giving him nicknames just because he broke into an abandoned theatre. Child’s play, really.</p><p>“I’m appalled by the choice of names,” Sherlock said, letting go of the doors to watch them fall shut. </p><p>“I’ll take Detective Shezza over the slurs they called you in London any day,” his step-sister said, chin raised high. She gave him a quick reassuring smile and off she went to chat up Kate. </p><p>“So, what do we do now?” John said, appearing next to him. </p><p>“WE PARTY!” Eddie shouted on top of his lungs, jumping in Billy’s arms and the two ran into a room connected to the corridor. </p><p>And ‘party’ they did. The girls took up exploring the second floor which led to balconies overseeing the theatre just behind the entrance hall that served for greeting guests. The third and fourth floor were all locked and off-limits, and neither John nor Sherlock felt like kicking out anything else today. The theatre itself was a vast and giant room with seats for about five hundred people. Somewhat, the stage was lit up by reflectors -- an automatic response to the generator being run? Black cables littered the stage, like snakes in a jungle. The guys poured in, trying out the satin seats. </p><p>“Mom told me it used to be an opera, then a cinema, then a theatre again,” Mike said, putting his feet up. He hooked his hands behind his head, fingers intertwining at the base of his skull. Eddie and Billy both fooled around, jumping on the seats and chasing each other. Wilkes kept his distance, keeping an eye out for his friends in case one fell and broke his neck. As if that was of any help, but okay. </p><p>“Why’d they abandon the building?” John asked, sitting down as well. Sherlock leaned on the backrest of another row. </p><p>Mike shrugged, frowning when Eddie tripped Billy on the stage with a cable. Billy did a barrel roll and laughed it off, tripping Eddie right back. Wilkes joined in on the fun, recording them. Sherlock blinked, deciding then and there to always leave space for Americans to astound him whenever they chose to. </p><p>“People said creepy things started happening,” Mike resumed, looking at John. “Like, things falling down, light bulbs breaking, the snackbar being eaten out of, that sort of stuff. Superstition took over and business crashed worse than Wall Street back in twenty-nine.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted at the historical comparison. </p><p>“So, do you think it was vampires?” John raised a sardonic eyebrow. So far this place wasn’t as cryptic as he’d imagined it would be. </p><p>“Nah. This town just lacked gossip at the time or something. Somebody didn’t like their cheese popcorn so they started talking shit. Happens a lot.”</p><p>“How delightful,” Sherlock remarked dryly. A yell elicited by Billy who got into a tickle fight with Wilkes startled him into full attention. His look of disapproval shined through and he got to walking out of the theatre part back to the hall. “I’ll check on Irene. I think the girls took over the buffet station and are diminishing what is left of the stale chips.”</p><p>“I’m right behind you!” John called after him, scrambling to his feet from the claustrophobic seat where he perched himself. Mike’s firm hand stopped him, though. </p><p>“Hold on a sec, Doc,” he said airily, John rolling his eyes at the nickname. He was a medical student, not a doctor yet! John schooled his expression to patient; he wanted to keep Sherlock company. What if there really are vampires? Sherlock will need backup. “So, are you two, like, together, then?”</p><p>“What?” John blurted out, casting a shy look over his shoulder. Theoretically, he could gather enough bravery and confidence to ask him out? But hell, did Mike catch him off guard. “What do you mean?”</p><p>Mike gave him a knowing smile, as though he could read his mind. “Relax, he’s gone for the girls. But, are you? A couple? Dating?”</p><p>“Mike, what the hell?”</p><p>“So you’re not?” </p><p>“No!” Not yet, anyway. “What gave you the idea?”</p><p>“You’d have to be blind not to see it, man,” Mike snorted, clapping him on the shoulder. “Both of you are deep in it. I thought you two were together already, damn.”</p><p>“Mike,” John groaned, facepalming. There goes his secret mission. Jesus, he’d make a miserable spy. Not that Mike was malicious to go and spread the word, but still! At least he didn’t go out with the group as much to have a constant reminder. “What do you mean you’d have to be blind to see it?”</p><p>“It’s the way you look at each other, man,” Mike said, shrugging. At John’s frown, he continued. “Really. It’s like two suns facing each other, ya know? You both steal glances at the other one when you think the other isn’t looking. It’s quite telling.”</p><p>“Fucking hell, Mike. I spent the last few days analysing every interaction I have with Sherlock in order to see whether I should confess without making myself look like an overly confident idiot.”</p><p>“Hey, I know what I see. And I’m right. I may wear glasses, but if anything, they better my vision further and what I see is two lovestruck fools.”</p><p>John rose to his feet. Hm. If even Mike, someone whom John met up with only during summer, saw and confirmed John’s hopes, then there wasn’t much doubt left, was there? “Wow, thanks. You’re the third person this week to tell me this, so I guess… I should do something about it?”</p><p>“That’s up to you, my guy. But if I were you, I would.”</p><p> “Right. Well, thanks. I’ll better go catch up with Sherlock.”</p><p>“Bring food?” Mike asked hopefully, getting a glare in return. “Hey, just sayin’. It’s gonna be a long night when Billy and Eddie get a hold of something music related.”</p><p>John waved a hand in indifference, shuffling towards the exit. Wilkes and Eddie now bumped into each other, flat chests colliding, trying to tackle their opponent to the ground. Children. </p><p>Back in the hall the atmosphere quietened, save for the thundering beat of his heart and the static popping of lightbulbs above. On his left there was a window of sorts for serving food. Sherlock stood by, leaning his elbows on the sill, staring skeptically at Kate and Irene trying out a nacho sauce machine. John took a moment to appreciate the view, letting his gaze trail the length of Sherlock’s long, aesthetic, toned, strong legs, and then stopped to kick himself mentally before he got too far. <em>Not the time, Watson</em>, he told himself, readjusting his jeans as he walked. But, he could admit that Sherlock’s legs were rather… elegant. Yes, <em>elegant</em>.</p><p>“How’s it looking?” he said, eyes bright as he stood next to the curly boy. Sherlock leaned on his right elbow to get a better look at John and open himself for conversation. Everything indicated that Sherlock indeed reciprocated. And since John didn’t need prescription glasses, he could currently see Sherlock’s pupils dilate, and it wasn’t due to the lightning change. </p><p>“Irene and Kate are trying to make use of the nacho sauce machine, but I strongly advise against eating anything that comes out of it,” Sherlock said, apparently bored by the deep sound of his baritone. He glanced at Sarah, who kept typing away at her phone. “Sarah keeps tweeting about the latest episode of the Kardashians, and Irene also revived a slurpee machine right there.”</p><p>Sherlock’s finger pointed at the incriminating machine churning together ice and flavours. John’s memory brought up one in particular; Greg bought him a giant cup of mango slurpee the day before he was supposed to go back to Canada when he was eleven. They both got a brain freeze -- a very weird experience overall. </p><p>“I never had one,” Irene said, slurping on a cup of blueberry flavoured slurpee of her own. Even from where they were standing John could see her sugar rush. Her movements were more erratic, jerky, and she rocked on the balls of her feet. Oh no. “Have you had one? You should taste it! It’s so good!”</p><p>“No, thanks.”</p><p>“Why not? You have the sweetest of tooths. I wonder how you have any teeth left. Oops, can’t English today.” And as such, she burped, and poured herself more slurpee liquid. </p><p>“Christ, she’ll regret that,” John whispered, trying to keep a supportive fake smile on his face long enough for her not to sack him. Sherlock nodded, wincing as his step-sister downed the whole cup and refilled it with nectarine-flavoured chewable ice dump. </p><p>“I take no responsibility for her,” Sherlock said, hopping onto the counter and swinging his legs over. John barely had time to avoid his long legs hitting him across the face. “Sorry. Just wanted to grab some of the nachos before these two make a mess of things.”</p><p>“We can hear your posh arse, brother-dear,” Irene said reprimandingly, but her complaint got swallowed by another swing of slurpee. She burped, going for yet one more refill. She mixed the two flavours now. </p><p>“I can hear your headache from here, too,” Sherlock replied, tossing John the bags of nacho chips. There were a handful for both of them. </p><p>Sherlock swung back into the hall, leaving the girls to their devices. As they walked back to the theatre, he paused, head turned to one of the racks standing slovenly on the side. Bubble wraps hung over the top, reaching the ground. Most of the air pockets had popped or expired. </p><p>“Sherlock?” John asked tentatively, halting before the theatre doors. </p><p>His friend snapped back from his trance, blinking rapidly and shaking his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “Just thought I saw something.”</p><p>“Vampires?” John teased, budging the doors open with his hip. He already turned around and missed Sherlock’s eye roll. They deposited the nacho bags on the free seat next to Mike who hummed in delight. He immediately grabbed a bag of plain chips and munched on it. “You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Fankyu,” Mike spat at him, stuffing his face with a fistful of nachos. John heard Sherlock snicker behind him, so he took a bag himself and threw it at him. It occurred to John that he hadn’t seen Sherlock eat since breakfast -- not even at lunch. </p><p>The boy yelped at the sudden weight launched at him, but managed to catch it. He looked at John quizzically, as though unsure what to do with it.</p><p>“Eat,” John instructed, pointing at him. “You haven’t gotten anything in you since seven in the morning. Mrs Hudson would strangle you if she knew.” He tried to ignore the feeling of Mike watching them as if they were a goddamned rom-com, but it was pointless to care. </p><p>Sherlock glared, but obeyed. He took his time opening the bag, rustling it as loudly as he could, but John wouldn’t relent. “I thought you being a doctor meant you’d stuff me with healthy meals. Years-old nachos? You’re improvising.”</p><p>“I can’t really do much else with you, can I?” John chuckled, as did Mike behind him. He turned his head to give him a stern <em>look</em>. Mike seemed happy and content, thank you very much. </p><p>All of a sudden a screeching, deafening noise took them by surprise. They automatically covered their ears, dropping the nachos. It came from the stage. Billy and Eddie gritted their teeth, while Wilkes frantically played with a microphone, tuning it to an acceptable equilibrium. </p><p>“What the hell, guys?” Mike shouted once the sound subsided. He sounded scandalized. “I dropped my nachos because of you!” Right then the doors opened, sending a strip of light at the boys messing around with the cables and technical devices. Kate asked the same question, Sarah in tow. </p><p>“Sorry! Seb fucked up!” Eddie shouted, crying out an ‘ouch’ when Wilkes stomped on his foot. “Hey, it’s true! Don’t get pissy, bitch. But anyway, we found karaoke!”</p><p>“No way!” Kate gasped, hands clasping together. John and Sherlock exchanged worried glances. “I want to go first! What songs are there?”</p><p>“I’m figuring it out,” Billy said. He was crouching behind Wilkes, tinkering with the sound board and settings on the digital panel. “Gimme a few minutes and we’ll be ready for a proper PARTY!”</p><p>John saw Sherlock flinch from the corner of his eye. The movement was gone as fast as it appeared, but it got John worried. “Sherlock? You alright?”</p><p>“What?” Sherlock snapped back to attention, though he avoided John’s gaze. Hm. “Nothing, just… thought I saw something.”</p><p>“What did you see?” Kate asked out loud as she marched towards the stage. Wilkes lifted his chin, squinting at Sherlock. John set his jaw, exhaling. He knew where this was going. </p><p>“Seeing things, Holmes?” Wilkes called out teasingly. He bared his teeth in a sneer, standing up. He puffed out his chest, and John had the need to trip him. “Are you getting scared of vampires? Boo! Ha, scared yet?”</p><p>“Not funny, Seb,” Mike said, crunching on a nacho. </p><p>“Yeah, you almost cried that you broke your fingernails back in front,” Billy reminded him, snickering. Wilkes flicked his ear, much to Billy’s pain, so he resumed his work on the karaoke. In the meantime, Eddie dug up some electric guitars of which only one had strings attached.</p><p>“I’ll check up on Irene,” Sherlock pointed his thumb towards the exit, eyeing John. He looked tense. He waved off John’s inquiry about what was up, saying he’ll be right back. John was left with the group that went about their loud business. Heaving a sigh, he dug a hand into Mike’s offered bag of nachos and joined the feast. Sherlock needed space, so he’ll grant him exactly that. It’s not like he knew when precisely he should pop the question, anyway.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Vampires?? Perhaps.<br/>We'll see next episode! Which falls on Boxing Day? well, in Slovakia we open presents on the evening of the 24th, but I think that for those of you who open them on the 25th it could be a nice bonus treat ;D Stay tuned~<br/>Also, John likes to thirst over Sherlock's legs. Now we know!<br/>I'm also going to stop linking my and Bee's tumblrs in here, I realised I can just throw it in the note that displays after every new chapter (and that long-ass note needs a review from em anyway, which I'll be doing right after I post) :D I'm slow on this, but hey! I'm making progress~</p><p>Feel free to chat me up!</p><p>Updated: 20.12. 2020<br/>Word count: 4584<br/>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. A Nightmare at the Opera IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are in-conveniences</p><p>episode 5, chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, y'all! And happy Boxing Day, if that's something people in the westerner parts of the world wish :D were your presents good? I got a comfy red jumper! (and money hehe), so I'm content. Only if I got the peace and quiet too, but I made Christmas dinner so at least I had good food, too.<br/>Now enough blabber and back to hot summer holidays!<br/>Thank you for reading, and special thanks to Bee and Dee, who made yesterday nicer &lt;3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Breathing felt easier on the other side. Sherlock’s chest expanded as he inhaled deeply, letting his mind clear itself of panic. This mustn’t be coincidence. The shadow he had seen was a mere flicker in the corner of his eye the first time it occured, but he couldn’t imagine things repeatedly, could he? He flinched as a sound wave pounded through the walls coming from the theatre, shortly followed by Kate’s muted wailing of her rendering of a boy band song that Sherlock didn’t recognise. </p><p>Before his brain cells suffered any collateral damage, Sherlock forced his legs to move. Vampires were just rumours around the theatre. But then again, everything was possible. He called out his step-sister’s name, but no response came. Suppressing a spike of worry he leaned over the buffet counter, closing his eyes in relief. </p><p>Irene lay on the ground, face up, groaning. The brain freeze has finally occurred, as it appeared. The slurpee mix spilled on her shoes, and there was residual blue sticky ice around her lips. Sherlock repeated her name, and she squinted into the ceiling lamp, lashes fluttering. </p><p>“Jesus? Is that you?” she croaked, wriggling on the ground like a paraplegic worm. She tried to lift her head, but failed. Sherlock fought the urge to take out his phone and record her. “Take me to Jerusalem for forty years.”</p><p>“Irene, can you hear me?” Sherlock asked, grinning widely. Oh, this was better than witnessing a hangover. </p><p>As an answer, Irene flapped her hands about like a lobotomised seal. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, just resurrect me already. Be the Judas to my slurpee….” And she passed out.</p><p>Sherlock sombered then, realising that she was in no state to help him rationalise this situation. Damn, why did he leave without the journal? He went through what he <em>could </em>do. Well, he certainly didn’t want to seem like a nancy to John, although he would probably take his word for it. But the rest… may not be so merciful to his paranoia. Wilkes, he gave zero tosses about, but if they all ganged up on him, that would be embarrassing. He certainly didn’t want to relive some of his past experience in bullying, nor for John to witness the humiliation. </p><p>What else was there to do? Get a second opinion. But whose? Mrs Hudson’s, Lestrade’s? Undecided, Sherlock took out his phone and let fate decide. His finger landed on Mrs Hudson first. He dialed her number and waited. And waited. And waited. And he got transferred to leave a voice message. He tried again, same result. She was either on her way home or was watching trash American television. Lestrade was his only option left. Begrudgingly, he tapped his on contact icon and waited. And waited. <em>And waited</em>…. </p><p>“Where is everyone?” Sherlock growled, shoving his phone back in his jeans. </p><p>Little did he know that Lestrade was going through a meltdown of his own.</p><p>~</p><p>Greg clutched at the hair at his greying temples, intensely watching the TV. Justinkopnik Lesterkriknik has just ended his betrothal with his now ex-fiancée, Alkantira Fakyou Shukeera. But the challenge had yet to reveal itself. </p><p>The camera focused on Justinkopnik, who observed the view of his magnificent estate when the doors flew open and his furious mother stormed in. </p><p>“Justinkopnik!” she shouted, beyond herself. Her pair of saggy implants that hung from her chest bumped dangerously up and down, threatening to rupture at some point, Greg thought. Which would serve her right, that bitch. “I demand to know why you refuse to speak to your own mother?!”</p><p>Greg put his head between his palms, squishing his cheeks in a focused pout. What comes next? He badly needed to relieve himself in the bathroom, but the next commercial break would come in the habitual five minutes. The music intensified, violins quickening their pace, Greg squatting on the edge of the sofa in dreadful anticipation.</p><p>Justinkopnik regarded his mother with an arched eyebrow, calm. “Ah, there you are. I wondered where the breeze came from on such scorching day.”</p><p>“Don’t speak to me like that!”</p><p>“Then how, pray tell, should I speak to you? You never respect me when I voice my opinions.”</p><p>“Like hell she doesn’t!” Greg said, frowning. That witch deserved a taste of her own medicine. </p><p>“Oh, stop this nonsense!” Justinkopnik’s mother grunted, crossing her wobbly fat arms. She crossed the room in an attempt to intimidate the young king, but he didn’t back down. He had the higher ground. “All those chemicals you use are getting to your head! You should let go and just be a girl again!”</p><p>“FUCK NO!” Greg shouted, putting his feet down, knocking over a soda can. “JUST LET HIM BE WHO HE IS YOU WICKED WITCH!”</p><p>But Justinkopnik kept his cool throughout the confrontation. His face hardened, but his voice was steady. With hands clasped behind his back and spine straight as a rod, he said, “I don’t see your point, mother. All those years you longed for an eldest son after you birthed four daughters, and when I came out as a trans man, you changed your opinion? This is who I am, and I am a righteous man, and you cannot ever change that!”</p><p>“FUCK YES! YOU TELL HER JUSTINKOPNIK!” Greg sobbed, cheering the king on as he dramatically left his mother speechless in the lone room. Greg actually teared up. “I am so fucking proud of my boy! He came so far!”</p><p>~</p><p>Exhaling through his gritted teeth, Sherlock returned to the theatre. Best leave Irene to her harmless state of brain freeze musing about the Bible and Jesus, albeit incorrectly. Back inside, John’s head snapped up and found his silhouette as he closed the doors. Kate’s wailing had finally stopped, much to everyone’s delight. </p><p>“You alright?” John asked once he came closer into his personal space. Sherlock jerked his chin in agreement, mind racing. What did the journal say about vampires? Usually the mainstream knowledge applied -- stake through the heart, Holy water (unfortunately Irene couldn’t provide that through her religious delirium), and… Damn, what else? Why was his mind so patchy today?</p><p>John seemed not to buy his thoughtful silence, but the moment Sherlock saw him open his mouth, Wilkes called everyone to him. </p><p>“Look what’s here!” he said, pointing at something buried in the shadow below the stage. “Someone left a coffin here!”</p><p>Shivers ran down Sherlock’s spine. Oh God. This wasn’t looking good. </p><p>“Don’t fuck with me, Wilkes,” Kate gasped, running up to him and peering down. “No way! Do you think someone <em>died </em>here?”</p><p>“Hey, guys, who wants to see me get in?” Billy laughed, pacing down to where Sherlock, John, and Mike stood by the coffin. Sherlock tensed, silently pleading Billy not to do it. It wasn’t worth the risk to which he was oblivious to. Billy kicked off his shoes and made to step in, and Sherlock broke.</p><p>“Wait! Don’t do it!” he raised a hand, stopping him from proceeding further. Everyone froze, and Billy took a staggering step back. </p><p>“What, why?” Billy and Eddie asked, puzzled by Sherlock’s apprehension. Even John seemed perplexed, but remained silent. Instead, he observed the others to gauge their reactions. Sarah next to them even looked up from her phone. </p><p>“I…” Sherlock started, unsure of how to get the message across. “I don’t think it’s wise to play with the coffin.”</p><p>“Why? Do you seriously believe in vampires?” Wilkes bore into him, a wicked sort of smile on his mediocre looking face. “Dude, you’re an adult, grow up! It’s just tales! What kind of nonsense do they feed you in Britain?”</p><p>“I’ll graciously ignore your imbecilic remarks since your New York accent is apparently still salty over being a colony over two-hundred years later,” Sherlock fired off, “but you have no idea what lurks in the shadows. These things can very well exist, John can confirm that.”</p><p>“Uhm, Sherlock, I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring it up here,” John tugged at his shirt sleeve. Sherlock exhaled and turned his back to him and Mike, though John’s presence served as an anchor to steady his thoughts. Right, okay. It did sound incredulous. </p><p>“You Europeans are crazy,” Wilkes laughed, although his peers seemed more uncomfortable than happy to listen to his berating jokes. </p><p>“Fine,” Sherlock said, staring at Wilkes with determination. He heard John say his name, but he shut him out. “Fine. You may be right, as much as your speaking lowers the IQ of the whole theatre. We haven’t ruled out everything, after all. Best test it out!”</p><p>“Sherlock, what are you…”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry, John! Just being my crazy British self. In the end, it’s just a coffin. A piece of wood. It’s not like Bram Stoker wrote an entire book as to <em>why</em> it is quite the bad idea to moonwalk into a vampire’s lair, right? Right! Dracula was intended to be helpful originally, did you know, Wilkes? I doubt it, what with your educational levels nearing Fahrenheit four-five-one.”</p><p>Sherlock climbed in, arms crossed across his chest, glaring at the ceiling. Why did this rile him up so much, anyway? Wilkes was an idiot by default, and it’s not like it is a pastime of young adults and teens here to hunt down the town’s supernatural entities. Even in London he grew to get used to teasing.</p><p>“Well, I don’t see vampires,” Mike chuckled with forced airiness, trying to lighten up the mood. Sherlock tuned out the others who began to fight over who was going in next. Pity they ignored his literary rant. Stoker’s Dracula belonged among few of the classical books Sherlock bothered to read as an adolescent. Though that was due to the fact that his older brother liked the story.</p><p>All of a sudden, the hinges of the coffin lid creaked. Sherlock didn’t even have time to register John hauling him out of the coffin before the lid clapped shut loudly. Everybody stared at it like deer in headlights. </p><p>“Okay, who did that?” Mike said sternly. “Wilkes? That’s not funny, you know?”</p><p>“I didn’t do shit!”</p><p>“Sherlock, you okay?” John said, looking him up and down. </p><p>“Yes, don’t mother me --”</p><p>“What was that?” Kate shrieked, pointing at something on the podium. This time, all of them saw a shadowy figure hide beyond their field of vision and behind the curtains. “Who’s doing it?”</p><p>“Not me!” Billy and Eddie peeped together, voices pitched an octave higher. Wilkes jumped down off of the stage, backing up against the seats. John and Sherlock retreated with them, eyes skimming the area for any unexpected movement. </p><p>The nacho bags started flying, eliciting yells from Sarah and Kate who crouched and shielded their heads from the angry fleeting air pockets. The cables on stage and the karaoke machine flared up, buzzing in their own illegible melodies. </p><p>“Everyone for themselves!” Wilkes declared and he darted for the exit, as did Eddie and Billy. Much like back in front of the theatre, the three boys crashed into an unbreakable, unyielding barrier. “It’s locked? How?! Holmes, what did you do?”</p><p>“Oh, please! As if you hadn’t seen me climb into the coffin before this started!”</p><p>Sooner than any of them could divulge in another round of verbal sparring, an artificial fog that hugged the floor crept on the stage, the lights going on and off repeatedly as if they were broken. The second time they lit up, they were focused on the centre of the stage where a vaguely familiar figure stood, a microphone stand in hand, dressed in tight jeans and a white tank top. </p><p>The kids all yelled, and an invisible force hurdled them down on the satin seats. Sherlock clutched John’s wrist tightly on instinct. Eddie, Billy, and Wilkes were lifted from the ground and transferred to the front row by the same unknown force, and Kate and Sarah were dragged across the carpet as well. </p><p>As the shock wore off, Sherlock had enough time to examine the mysterious stranger, the source of their distress. The stranger’s skin was in horrible condition; it fell off in places and exposed dried out flesh. It was sickeningly yellow and green, but there were no signs of bleeding or injuries. Eyes moving up, Sherlock’s unconsciousness blent into his consciousness, recognising the man, the legend -- the ghoul. </p><p>
  <em>Freddie Mercury. </em>
</p><p>~</p><p>“Get in,” Mary commanded, tugging on her gloves. She re-adjusted her shades that covered most of her cheekbones and a little bit of her eyebrows. </p><p>“No need to get pissy, Miss,” Moran snickered, closing the car doors. They were currently in a remote part of Reichenbach Falls in an old, rusty Fiat. Undercover was what they did on occasion since Mary joined the club, and her partner in crime, Sebastian Moran, a man in his late twenties became a right pain in her ass. “Where to?”</p><p>“If you didn’t read the files again --”</p><p>“Chill, woman, I did,” Moran said, satisfied with how he riled her up. He stretched his legs as far as the limited space allowed, and Mary started the engine. It rattled for a few seconds before catching ignition and she drove them out of the small abandoned road. “What’s got you so rattled?”</p><p>“Mind your business,” she clipped, focusing on the road. She had no time for his stupid small talks now, less if they indicated mentions of John. “So, recapitulate what we’re doing today. I’m in no mood to deal with your laziness.”</p><p>Moran purred, Readjusting the radio settings until Mary slapped his fingers. “Driver chooses music and today we’re playing an album called: <em>silence</em>. Forced or not.”</p><p>“Fine,” Moran slumped back in the passenger seat, rolling his eyes in a dramatic fashion. He ran calloused fingers through his short, dirty blond hair. The uncanny sound of his fingers tapping against the sill of his window unnerved Mary further, her knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. She can’t let him get to her like this. That would be her weakness. And she’s <em>not</em> weak. “So we are to cut our contract with two ghouls that live in this old-ass convenience store.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And get their last rent.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And find out whether there are more in this town. And end the contract.”</p><p>“Wow, I’m amazed you managed to remember so much information with your micro-brain,” Mary deadpanned, turning right at a crossroad. Moran poked her arm at which she smacked him hard on the shoulder. </p><p>“You really are on edge today, Morstan,” he laughed, rubbing the sore spot. She hated his guts, but she had to work with him, as one of the lower ranking members of the club. Moran was a little above her, despite his tomfuckery of a personality. This was her consecrating mission -- one that would allow her to rank up to one of the more trusted members. </p><p>She decided to ignore Moran for the rest of their short journey. This was her gig today. He was supposed to watch her and then report to the club leader. She saw it coming, this mission, long before her first initiative had begun before winter last year. But then again, anger was her driving force back then in November. And months before that as well… Hm. Service for service. She had to own up to her end of the bargain, even though her boss couldn’t care less about that, now that she was his pawn. She should’ve waited until she got John, and only then joined this God forsaken Club. Now, she lost the necklace that supposedly should’ve made John finally fall for her, but Irene fucking Adler had to intervene. </p><p>Mary parked in front of a shabby convenience store, long out of business. This was the more remote part of town, similar to the one where the old theatre on the opposite side of Reichenbach Falls’ topography stood. Mary actually thought of reviving and reconstructing the building and using it for her shows instead of the Tent, but that could wait. </p><p>They got out, the street ambiently silent. The sun almost completely dived down below the horizon, only a scarce orange glow emitting from behind the pine trees. Mary and Moran sneaked inside the store; the doors were left unlocked. </p><p>An office lamp shone in the back of the store, the light fading as the lightbulb slowly ran out of its life day by day, nearing its end. Moran prodded Mary further -- or rather, shoved. She gave him a glare, lips pursed into a thin white line. </p><p>She proceeded to shuffle forwards, hand resting on her belt, centimeters from her still-hidden gun. Upon her introduction to the club, she immediately received arms training, which she mastered quickly, thanks to the journal which she got from the leader. </p><p>“Hello?” a raspy voice called out from the back room. </p><p>“It’s the Club,” Mary said, approaching the doorframe. She cautiously stepped in, gritting her teeth at the sight that were two ghouls hunched over a coffee table. There was nothing about them in her journal, but the Club archive had a small file on them, and not nearly as thorough or as thick as it ought to be. </p><p>The taller ghoul looked up, eyes glassy. It had skin missing here and there, and it was mostly wrinkly and tough. It was hard to tell their sex, because with time, all the obvious signs to tell males and females apart just rotted away. This was caused by radiation -- but where they got in contact with it, no one knew, and the ghouls usually didn’t remember or didn’t disclose that information. However, they didn’t transmit the radiation, which was a relief. </p><p>“Oh, you’re back soon!” the ghoul exclaimed, and its companion blinked, looking up from his boring game of solitaire. “We’ve got the money. Here.”</p><p>The ghoul walked over to an unlocked safe in the corner and drew out a suitcase. Mary watched as the clips sprung open and banknotes revealed themselves, green and happy. Moran took it, counting them first to make sure everything lived up to the contract. Satisfied, he closed the suitcase and nodded to the ghoul and then at Mary. </p><p>“So? What about your end of the deal?” the ghoul said, shyly, wringing its calloused hands in a repetitive motion. The other ghoul paid them no attention, sighing somewhat resignedly. </p><p>Mary reached into her jacket and threw two passports at the coffee table and Moran put a suitcase on the floor by the door. New identities and camouflage granted. Not that they wouldn’t be obviously different at first glance. Hope died last. </p><p>“Thank you!” the ghoul said, sounding relieved. He hunched over the able, fingers tracing the tiny paper books. “Finally, we can start anew. How does Las Vegas sound to you?” The other ghoul grunted in response. </p><p>“Before we part ways,” Mary said, eyeing Moran standing in the doorway, “can you tell us something? Do you know of any other ghouls who are in need of help?”</p><p>The tall ghoul considered, tapping his scarred chin thoughtfully. “Hm. I guess… Maybe Freddie across town? What do you think, Frank?”</p><p>Frank gave them a noncommittal shrug, aligning his row of hearts. The spades were almost complete too. Mary glanced at Moran, who waited quietly for the next step. His blue eyes dared Mary to decide how the situation should evolve and proceed. The suitcase bumped into his thigh as he swung his arm back. Snakelike calculation twinkled in his cold gaze. </p><p>Mary inhaled. Each party got what they wanted. They should move on. She and Moran got a piece of new information that will prolong their day a little more, nothing they won’t deal with. </p><p>“Where exactly does Freddie hide?” Mary pressed, taking Moran’s impatient tapping of his foot into consideration. She put on her best ‘believe me, I’m no threat’ face. She was a master of acting. The ghoul fell for it. </p><p>“In the old theatre that used to be an opera. Or was it the other way around, Frank?”</p><p>“Thank you for telling us,” Mary smiled sweetly, hand drawing behind her jacket. “It’s very nice of you, being so concerned for your friend. We’ll help him like we helped you.”</p><p>Before the ghoul saw it, she drew her gun and shot him between his eyebrows. Strong, pungent smell of gunpowder filled the air, echoes of the shot ringing in Mary’s ears. She aimed at the other ghoul while his friend staggered lifelessly to the cold hard ground. There was no blood splattering, no gasp, no scream. The remoteness of this area would cause no trouble with the local police department since no locals lived in these parts. </p><p>The ghoul named Frank stared back at Mary, glassy eyes empty and full of acceptance. He didn’t do so much as flinch. He folded his sorted cards into one full deck and pushed it towards the middle of the coffee table. He rested his back up against the peeling wallpaper and put his damaged hands in his lap. </p><p>“It had to come, one day,” Frank croaked sadly. Something about his matter-of-fact attitude unsettled Mary. This wasn’t the first time she harmed, but his compliance made it worse for her conscience. “I told him the Club was after us. Too many of us had disappeared over the years. I hate when I’m right. Get on with it.”</p><p>“You’re not going to protest more?” Mary asked, fractionally lowering the gun before resuming her full grip. </p><p>“I’ll have enough time wherever I’ll end up for that.”</p><p>Mary exhaled through her nose, nodded, and pulled the trigger. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>phew, there goes Freddie! when I wrote this back in July, this was supposed to be a theater haunted by Shakespeare's ghost and Tom Hiddleston. That prompt is still up for usage by me, so worry not! We shall get the literary dick jokes of Willy Shakes one day in this fic, as well as another brilliant Brit. perhaps?<br/>but I badly needed our boi Freddie to be here, and next chapter you'll find out more! if you thought that a spirit embodiment of Nicolas Cage that possesses dolls was where the madness ended.... then you're in for a wild ride darlin' ;)<br/>stay tuned for the 30th!<br/>oh yeah and there's the first interaction with Moran. he's a guy to behold, that Seb :))</p><p>Updated: 25.12. 2020<br/>Word count: 3594<br/>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. A Nightmare at the Opera V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is Freddie Mercury and it starts happening</p><p>episode 5, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My dear people and beings of species I may not be aware of (but they're of course welcome here) -- the grand finale of our ghoulish adventure is here! Thank you all for reading, you all are amazing &lt;3<br/>Special thanks to Bee and Dee whom I bombarded with requests to review episodes 6 and 7 :3 thanks, boos &lt;3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock bit his lower lip, not letting go of John’s wrist, gaze focused on <em>Freddie </em>fucking <em>Mercury </em>groping a microphone on the stage while the whole group sat restrained, forced to watch the cosplaying ghoul (except for Irene, who currently talked to Jesus and subconsciously drank two worths of buckets full of blueberry slurpee under the impression it would ward off bad spirits, Tom Cruise, and capitalism). At least Sherlock hoped the ghoul was cosplaying. </p><p>“Sherlock?” John whispered, whipping his neck around, eyebrows hitched in concern. “What do we do now?”</p><p>Sherlock let out a shaky breath, racking his mind on all the available information he has on ghouls. The journal… the journal… </p><p>
  <em>‘Ghouls come originally from humans. It is unclear how exactly the process of absorbing radiation manifests in transforming cells and their chemical structures to withstand longer, more durable lives. This also eliminates their expiration as due to succumbing to illnesses known to mankind, for example. They <span class="u">do not</span> transmit radiation, however, and are completely safe to be around. Most of them are loners, but they can group up with other ghouls to form cliques. Usually, they are ashamed of their looks and avoid human contact, ending up homeless and therefore squatting at abandoned buildings (this serves as breeding ground for rumours that the area is haunted, most commonly) but in general, they are harmless. Occasionally, a ghoul or two claim that they possess supernatural powers, but most of them do not expand beyond aggravating stench and laborious boring talks about X Factor or America’s Got Talent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Since ghouls are humans with quite the obvious extra steps (not always willingly) taken to ensure immortality, their weaknesses are highly individual. They have higher endurance and agility, despite the occasional shedding of skin. Their strength is far greater than that of a regular human, too. Discretion is advised when dealing with an unknown ghoul.’</em>
</p><p>Dammit. How were they supposed to deal with an I-sort-of-know-this-ghoul-it’s-goddamned-Freddie-Mercury-but-not-really-for-God’s-sake?</p><p>“Surprised, darlings?” Freddie mused, resting his cheek on the back of his hand that held the microphone. He wore shades that reflected the limelights shining on him. “Why look so frightened?”</p><p>“Who the fuck are you?” Sarah said, confounded. Everyone in the row snapped their heads at her, leaning over each other in a neat row. “What? You know him?”</p><p>“Know him? KNOW HIM?!” Eddie shouted, as though Sarah had offended his long-dead grandmother’s sacred cow that brought blessing upon her village in the form of an annual rain fest. Eddie tossed around in his seat, which prevented him from strangling Sarah. “He’s <em>Freddie </em>fucking <em>Mercury</em>!”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“WHERE DID YOU GROW UP, SARAH? UNDER SPONGEBOB’S PINEAPPLE UNDER THE SEA?”</p><p>“That’s enough, you two,” Freddie said, snapping his fingers and restraining everyone tighter. “Tell me, why did you decide to come and disturb me at my home?”</p><p>“Home?” Wilkes repeated, appalled. “This is your <em>home</em>?”</p><p>“All the world’s a stage, darling,” Freddie said, flipping the microphone from one hand to the other. “I moved in as soon as people thought vampires or whatever those fuckers were started residing here. And look around, it’s lovely!”</p><p>He outstretched his hands, throwing his head back to bathe in the warm limelight. The karaoke machine sang heavenly tunes to aid the fanciful drama. Once the karaoke dropped its volume to lower decibels, Freddie’s shades reflected the shine of reflectors right into Wilkes’ line of sight and caused him to hiss and squint. Ah, sweet karma. </p><p>“Uhm… Mister Mercury, sir?” Mike asked sheepishly. </p><p>“Freddie is fine,” the ghoul waved dismissively, coming closer to the edge of the podium. The way he held onto the microphone stand reminded Sherlock of wizards… maybe he was, fuck if he knew at this point. </p><p>Mike continued, very uncomfortable since he was practically glued to the seat. “Okay -- Freddie… Uhm, it’s just that… it’s getting late and we’re expected to be home in a bit.”</p><p>“Why, you’ve been here only an hour!”</p><p>“Yes, well, Billy’s mom called,” Eddie chimed in, nodding profusely. Sherlock internally cringed at how desperate and hysterical they were becoming one by one. “He needs to go and help her grocery shopping.”</p><p>“Grocery shopping? Is that what you lot do nowadays? Aren’t you bored?”</p><p>“Oh, you can’t imagine,” Sherlock said, half groaning. Everyone turned to him. That was probably for the best. If the rest succumbed to hysteria, it could make matters worse. He had to think of a plan. But first: data.</p><p>“But onto the less boring -- how come you have supernatural powers?”</p><p>“Ah, that,” Freddie mused, sitting down, cross-legged. He seemed to be relishing the attention. The limelight followed his every move. “No fucking idea, really. It sort of does its own thing, ya know?” To demonstrate, he flailed his hand around, the electric guitar behind roaring wild tunes without having to be touched. “It’s synchronised with me at this point. I love it. Guess it’s a side effect of radiation.”</p><p>“RADIATION?” Wilkes barked out, alarmed. He fought the invisible restraints, but Freddie’s arched eyebrow suppressed him, any protests dying in his throat. </p><p>“It’s not transmittable,” Sherlock explained, beating Freddie to it. The singer snapped his fingers into a finger gun in a ‘<em>Bingo!</em>’ sort of fashion and propped an elbow on his knee. Sherlock relaxed a little. Time for another question. “Why do you call yourself Freddie Mercury?”</p><p>He felt a tug at his hand where John squeezed his hand in a ‘<em>Careful, you don’t know how bonkers he is</em>’ manner. When did their hands connect like this? Nevermind that now. Freddie seemed nonplussed. “Why shouldn’t I?” he said, pouting his lips and shrugging. “All my human life I’ve been told I looked like him, and then one day, I’m walking warily down the street, the brim pulled way down low, right? There ain’t no sound but the sound of my feet, and then suddenly, there’s a government fucker holding a radioactive machine gun ready to go. Next thing I know, I wake up in the bushes, flesh coming off in flakes. Yeah, I gagged too, honey.”</p><p>Mike had a hard time listening to the description. He went green, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Wilkes next to him sank further into the satin, feet tapping nervously. Kate and Sarah were clinging to each other, eyes wide and fixed on the ghoulish sight. Only Billy looked somewhat impressed, if a little weirded out. Eddie swallowed Freddie’s every word with keen interest after the initial shock had worn off. Obviously, he loved Queen, he had stated as much. John’s eyes, however, flickered around, observing the ghoul, his friends, and then Sherlock, silently inquiring about his next step. His heart skipped a beat when he fully realised that John firmly held onto Sherlock’s skinny hand, fingers woven together. </p><p><em>Focus</em>, he told himself. Freddie, thankfully, continued, so his mind could fixate on his speech. </p><p>“So anyway, confused as I was, I went home. I arrived, and my fiancée Veronica and my brother Charlie who lived with us were doing number seventeen -- the spread eagle. I walked in on them, in a far worse state than I am in now -- though you’ve got to admit, I manage to look pretty gorgeous.”</p><p>“Let me guess,” Sherlock cleared his throat, recognising the faint musical reference. “You were in such a state of shock you completely blacked out you didn’t remember a thing. It wasn’t until later, when you were washing the blood off your hands you even knew they were dead!”</p><p>“What?” Sarah peeped shakily next to Wilkes and Kate. Mike and John were horrified, frozen to the spot. As if they had any way of moving elsewhere. </p><p>“God, I wish, darling,” Freddie said, his mustache tilting up as he grinned. He got the reference. “Just coincidence, really, the names and all. I knew they were cheating long before that. In fact, I planned on breaking it off that day. They kicked me out of my own. But I frightened them enough as it was, which I’m glad for. Imagine doing the do and you see me!”</p><p>“Oh, please no,” John winced, scrunching up his face in discomfort. Sherlock couldn’t help but giggle at that. He squeezed John’s fingers. </p><p>“What happened after?” Sherlock asked. </p><p>Freddie shrugged one shoulder candidly. “I fled, leaving them as they were as it dawned on me that I transformed into this <em>new me.</em> I found two ghouls across town that took me in for a bit. Lot older than me, gosh. Frank and Steve. Haven’t seen them in over a year. They probably moved elsewhere by now. Eventually I ended up here, and it’s amazing!”</p><p>“You didn’t try to blend in with the locals?” Sarah asked curiously. She slowly started to warm up to the ghoul. </p><p>“You can’t ‘blend in’ with the locals,” Freddie said, sadness creeping into his otherwise cheerful demeanour. “I didn’t choose to be different, but they wouldn’t understand, you know? That much is given.”</p><p>Sherlock found himself sympathising with Freddie. It wasn’t that much different from his own life back in London, where his interests were brushed off by classmates who couldn’t bother to look at his hobbies from his point of view. It could be very lonely.</p><p>“Music kept me company, though,” Freddie continued, and Sherlock had to agree. In the last two years, musicals were a balm for his soul when the days became unbearable and even his experiments weren’t satisfactory enough. “Queen and Bowie, all those twentieth-century bombastic grooves. I adopted the new name, taking it from our legend Freddie, since I got his voice now. Kinda unbelievable, but perhaps the universe did it for a reason. Years went by, and I did fine. But recently I started getting bored. And then <em>you </em>came along tonight!”</p><p>“Hold on, can you actually sing like Freddie Mercury?” Eddie asked, excitement and anticipation brightening up his face. At that, Freddie rose to his feet, smirking. He did a pirouette, shot up his hand clenched in fist to the heavens (and ceiling) as the karaoke played the instruments and Freddie sang:</p><p>
  <em>Flash! AAAAAAAAAAAAA! Saviour of the universe!</em>
</p><p>The power he held over his vocal chords was immense and admirable. His pitch was identical to that of the real Freddie Mercury. Eddie cheered the ghoul on, getting a thank you in response along with a deep bow and a salutation. </p><p>“Another perk of radiation is its apparent improvement of my singing skills,” Freddie chirped, setting the microphone aside. “So, now that we’re all acquainted… Where would you like to sleep?”</p><p>“What?” half of them bellowed, spooked by the prospect of having to stay any longer than necessary. “Sleep? But we need to go home!”</p><p>“No, you don’t,” Freddie argued, peering at them over the rim of his black shades. “Why would you go home? We’ve got everything here! Food, mattresses, karaoke! Why else would you come here if not to seek a new home? I don’t mind roommates! After all, I need three more members for the revival of Queen, don’t you think, darlings?”</p><p>“Freddie, with all due respect, sir,” Mike said, precariously. “We really need to go home. Our parents are waiting for us to return by eleven.”</p><p>“Hm…. No, I don’t think I’ll let you,” Freddie said cheerily, leaning on the microphone stand. “After all, you can’t even move unless I allow you two.” To demonstrate his point further, he snapped his fingers and it felt as though invisible weights sat on their laps, immobilising them. </p><p>Sherlock’s mind raced furiously as John’s grip tightened, his thumb brushing his knuckles. He had to get them out -- trick the ghoul, if needed. Others began descending into panic mode. Kate started listing all the chores she should be doing at work at the Shack, Wilkes said he had to call his father and so on. Mike seemed to have passed out from the stress. </p><p>“Sherlock, we’ve got to do something,” John whispered, his tone urgent but firm and steady. </p><p>“I’m thinking!” he hissed back, and he would have tapped his feet anxiously if it weren’t for Freddie’s abilities. That only made him more nervous. A vicious cycle. He racked his brain to find a solution. He growled in frustration, gripping the left wooden arm of the seat until his knuckles screamed from the strain. His mind refused to work properly today. Hateful, this was. “I can’t come up with anything!”</p><p>“Sherlock, talk it through,” John pressed on, voice low so that only he could hear him. “Talk to me, I’ll help you. Don’t panic.”</p><p>“I’m <em>not </em>panicking!” Sherlock snapped, and he hated that he couldn’t pry John’s hand from his own. All this contact and being near him was <em>distracting. </em>Freddie chatted up Eddie in the meantime who tried to convince him to let them go to no avail. Freddie sat on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs leisurely in the air. Sherlock threw his head back in frustration. “We’re absolutely incapable of fighting him off, we have no aid, supernatural or other, to fight the ghoul off. I can’t think under these circumstances because everything, all the sensory input is just too strong, too distracting and I cannot find the right memory in my Mind Palace where I memorised the journal as an ill-effect of that! And to add insult to injury, I left it at the Shack before I agreed to join this group of your friends I have absolutely no connection with! Why did I agree in the first place? It’s not like I ‘blend in’ as Freddie had put it. That’s one thing we agree on. Some people don’t understand, don’t bother, just like Wilkes…”</p><p>“Hey, slow down,” John cut through his endless train of thought, his voice enough to rattle Sherlock’s monologue. Sherlock’s neck snapped up to lock their eyes, and there was a small and reassuring, if a little sad smile tilting the corner of John’s mouth almost imperceptibly. “Let’s not fall into the whirlwind and overthink, okay? Focus on me for a bit. Talk to me. Please.”</p><p><em>Like that’s not distracting enough as it is</em>,thought Sherlock bitterly. But John was right, it wouldn’t help anybody if he kept going off tangents. In a way, he was like his conductor of light, shining through the fog of his mind when it clouded and showed the correct direction. Yes, it still made him tetchy when he was in John’s proximity (Who wouldn’t be? Have you <em>seen </em>John?) but that was the Watson paradox. Interesting theory, he’ll have to analyze that further…</p><p>“Sherlock,” John repeated his name. Right. The ghoul. The group of John’s friends. “Listen, whatever it is with the troupe of these guys, we’ll talk about later, but…”</p><p>“TROUPE! JOHN, YOU’RE BRILLIANT!” Sherlock bellowed, shutting up everyone else. John looked puzzled, eyebrows hitched at the sudden change of mood. Sherlock leaned closer, planted a kiss to John’s temple on impulse, and whispered, “Indeed, a conductor of light!”</p><p>He turned to Freddie, who walked towards their end of the stage, kneeling to get a better look at the two of them. “What’s brilliant, lover boys?”</p><p>Sherlock virtuously ignored Mike’s hollow chuckle now that the situation lightened up with the idea and hope that he was going to solve this. <em>EMBARRASSMENT ASIDE, HOLMES, YOU’LL DEAL WITH YOUR STUPID IDIOCY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES LATER.</em></p><p>“You said you want to assemble a group, a troupe,” Sherlock started, sticking his chin out to Eddie. He talked fast in order to get rid of any lingering fluster he felt creep up his cheeks. “Eddie Van Coon here is looking for a singer. He, Wilkes, and Mike are going to be playing for Speedy’s on the weekends if they can convince the manager. And they are in search of a singer.”</p><p>“Shit, you’re right!” Eddie gasped, suddenly getting restless. “Of course! This would be perfect! Your voice is spot on, we could do covers endlessly! And also our own music, ya know, but that’s in the future.”</p><p>“Oh, really? That sounds…”</p><p>“Wonderful, actually,” Sherlock agreed, relaxing a bit. Even the invisible weight lifted off gradually. Breathing was easier now, the air not so cluttered and compressed anymore. “Don’t you see? It solves your problems -- you won’t be lonely, you’ll be in a musical group, and you’ll get to perform.”</p><p>“You’re forgetting one thing, darling,” Freddie said gloomily, lowering his head. “You lot are not put off by me -- but anyone else might be. I’m not as rusty as some other ghouls -- been one for roughly forty years only --”</p><p>“FORTY YEARS? BRO THAT’S SO COOL!” Billy suddenly gasped giddily, eyes widening. </p><p>“-- but I am still quite out of the ordinary.”</p><p>Sherlock thought for a second, and he found that he was able to staple his palms together and bring them up under his chin to resume his thinking pose now. As delightful as the freedom was, he allowed himself to merely smirk at his regained ability to move. Oh, it worked! </p><p>“That won’t be a problem,” Sherlock said, nodding to the others. “Kate is skilled with makeup and all things related. It’s all she thinks about while working at the Shack, and she has watched numerous videos on cosplay makeup as well, as far as I’m aware. I’m sure she would help you get prosthetics in place and cover up the rest of your… shortcomings. The rest can be masked by clothes, and despite what you think, the general population is full of idiots.” He turned to their company. They were still catching up to his rapid delivery. Only John and (surprisingly) Mike were smiling at him. </p><p>“Sorry. Not personal, just a fact. Everyone’s an idiot, in a way. My point is, most people don’t pay enough attention to notice your deficiencies nowadays, mostly if they’re concerning your looks overall if you’ve got talent, which you do. Kate is more than efficient with the task, I’m sure she’ll be happy to help. The guys who are in the group surely won’t be cross with you because of it, they’re not that shallow. Billy is quite the techno wizard, so he could manage your band’s potential technical issues. Plus, Sarah could potentially promote your band once you get out there. She has quite the following on her social media, that could be helpful in the long run if you decide to ‘go big’. Additionally, you don’t have to stay here -- I’m sure Eddie wouldn’t mind a roommate in his basement flat. This way, we can all go home and live happily ever after.”</p><p>“How do you know I live in my parents’ basement?” Eddie goggled at him, mouth falling open. </p><p>“There’s probably mould in the wall where you presumably have a drawer or wardrobe for your clothes,” Sherlock explained. “The moisture is trapped between the wall and wardrobe and soaks into the clothes. And your deodorant strengthens the faintly stale smell.”</p><p>“Shit, and here I thought Axe would solve my problems,” Eddie huffed a laugh, surprisingly not mad at Sherlock for the deduction he had made. Strange. </p><p>“Axe is just an advertisement you smelly pig,” Billy poked his friend in the ribs, sniffing and grimacing. “Ew! Shezza was right, you do smell.”</p><p>“Fuck off, your mother liked it.”</p><p>“‘Yo mama’ jokes are outdated,” Kate pointed out, showing her disapproval through her frown. Sarah nodded, saying that it could work only situationally according to her most recent poll in her story on instagram. </p><p>“Guys, let’s see what Freddie has to say, alright?” Mike said loudly over their arguments. They fell quiet and looked at the ghoul. Freddie stood frozen to the spot, looking from left to right at each of them.</p><p>“Would you really do that?” he asked, voice strangled. </p><p>Eddie was the first to respond, assuring him that yes, he’d very much like to have Freddie Mercury, in any shape or form, living with him and working with him. Mike and Wilkes (even though he seemed reluctant, but for once peer pressure did the right thing) had agreed too, and Kate was excited to get to try out some of the makeup tutorials she had saved on youtube for future references. </p><p>“Alright, alright, you buggers!” Freddie exclaimed, his spirits lifted and he danced around the stage. “One more thing, though.”</p><p>“What is it?” Sherlock asked, brows furrowing. Did he miss something that would undermine his solution?</p><p>“I’d like us to try out a song first, to see our… chemistry,” Freddie said, wringing his hands nervously. He put a hand to his hip to stop himself from fidgeting. </p><p>“Absolutely, dude!” Eddie said, hopping onto the stage and going for the guitar. He prompted Mike and Wilkes to follow him, leaving the girls and Sherlock with John down. “Any particular song?”</p><p>“Bohemian rhapsody,” Freddie said, all three of his new bandmates nodding in unison. </p><p>“Great! We practised this, actually. At least twice a year since we were fifteen.”</p><p>“Good. Get on, darlings!”</p><p>As they assembled themselves around the stage, Sherlock stretched out his legs, letting out a relieved sigh. That went better than expected. He closed his eyes for a moment as Eddie tuned the guitar, Mike trying out the drums, Wilkes sitting behind a piano that Freddie summoned from the backstage. </p><p>“That,” John’s breath tickled his ear, “was absolutely brilliant.”</p><p>Sherlock cracked his eyelids open, turning his head slightly to the right to see John smiling at him. That look alone sent shivers down his spine. Sherlock reciprocated the expression, his lips quirking up shyly. </p><p>“It was a suggestion I assumed they’d take a liking to,” Sherlock shrugged humbly, even though he felt his chest expand with pride. “I simply put together the facts and organised it in such a fashion everyone would get good experience out of it.”</p><p>“Don’t try to downplay it, you smart bastard,” John grinned bumping their shoulders. John propped his chin on his fist, leaning on the armrest. His look was somewhat dreamy and giddy, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he saw him look from his lips to his eyes. “You did a good job. No -- not good -- fucking amazing. Brilliant, as I said.”</p><p>“I… Thanks…?”</p><p>“You’re welcome!” John said cheekily, and for a bit there was a spark of connection, of something deeper. Their eyes met, and warmth spread through Sherlock’s chest that filled him with joy and contentment. </p><p>For a bit, Sherlock thought all his protective walls and restraint he placed upon himself would crumble -- and he would not mind it. No, he certainly would not, if they were to close the space between….</p><p>“BUCKLE UP, BOYS!” Freddie yelled into the microphone, startling them out of their seats. Sherlock tried hard not to take offense. John cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, resuming his normal position in his seat, though he still kept close to Sherlock. </p><p>“Sherlock…”</p><p>“Sorry about the --”</p><p>“Would you go on a date with me?”</p><p>“-- the…. What?” His neck almost snapped from how fast he turned to John. He watched him swallow, wet his lips, and repeat the question. He looked at him from under his lashes, the puppy-eyed stare a typical John Watson characteristic by now. Sherlock’s brain displayed a 404 Windows Vista error. “You… you want to go on a date with me.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“With me.”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>“<em>Me</em>.”</p><p>John smirked. “I thought you hated repeating yourself? But jokes aside, I do. Very much. I…”</p><p>“You didn’t think my impulse kiss to your temple was inappropriate?” Sherlock asked, confused. This wasn’t really a friendship protocol, was it? But as the fatty piece of meat that reigned his nervous system and powered his body woke up, it struck him in its completeness. “Oh…”</p><p>“I didn’t mind,” John murmured. It seemed like he wanted to take Sherlock’s hand again, but hesitated. “I <em>don’t</em> mind. I don’t think I could. And… I don’t know, I kind of tried to use your methods of deduction to see whether you like me back… So…”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“I hate to repeat myself,” Sherlock parroted, feeling enamoured and flattered by the fact that John paid enough attention to try deducing <em>him</em>. A true enigma, this John Watson, and all the more alluring. He timidly reached for John’s hand and intertwined their fingers lightly, thanking whatever deity that listened that the shadow in which they sat masked his crimson blush. </p><p>“Bastard,” John said, affection evident in the crinkles of his eyes and the crook of his smile. His thumb brushed the soft skin of Sherlock’s knuckles, and the troupe on stage got ready to shine. However, his phone buzzed and he had to dig it out, letting go of their handhold. His brows furrowed. “Sorry. That’s Mrs Hudson. She’s asking where we rushed off. Greg’s not picking up, apparently.”</p><p>Sherlock made it a point to quiz John later why he would even consider dating him. Now that he was aware that the gravitational pull that affected them went both ways, it felt like a stone fell off his back and he could be free. A date. They’d go on a <em>date</em>! And to think he stressed over the possibility of this happening or not…. Irene <em>was </em>right, why not give it a shot? They both studied in the same city, and the rest… that could wait. The peace that embalmed him when John’s hand held his made him long for more. Much more. And the rest could be postponed until the end of August. Just this once, he would grant himself one reckless decision. John was worth it, his whole being knew it now. </p><p>Freddie’s mustache wriggled as he gifted the whole group a smile, and their performance began. The four guys on stage took a breath, and sang, synchronised. </p><p>
  <em>Is this the real life? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Or is this just fantasy?</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>The car doors on Mary’s side banged shut as she pressed a button on the keychain to lock the car and followed Moran up to the theatre. As much as she was unsettled by the ghoul’s acceptance of his miserable faith, something about it nagged her. Whatever. There wasn’t space for pity in this line of work. The Club needed her to be focused. So she will be. </p><p>“Why exactly do we need to find the last ghoul anyway?” Mary asked, putting her shades down. It was already dark. Moran walked up to the front and pushed the doors open cautiously. He peered in, and motioned her to come hither. </p><p>“The leader heard one of them has powers that could come useful should the ghoul agree to join our side,” Moran said, taking his gun out. This was an unknown ghoul, danger was a possibility. </p><p>“What for, exactly?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you like to know? Climb the ladder first and find the ghoul.”</p><p>Little did they know they were wasting their time. The ghoul was long gone on his way for his happy ending, out of evil’s grasp.</p><p>~</p><p>John lifted an eyebrow as Irene groaned, fingers hovering at her temples. She suffered a strong brain freeze. He and Sherlock had to drag her to Mike’s minivan, and now she sat perched between the two, occasionally muttering something about Jerusalem and Jesus (and Satan, on one instance). </p><p>Now, almost at the Shack, she seemed to be coming to her senses. She whipped her neck around, resting her cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder. Her brother frowned, but didn’t try to shrug her off. He attempted it once and she smacked him. <em>Hard</em>. </p><p>“Fuck me three times and colourfully,” she murmured into Sherlock’s blue shirt. She arched her neck forwards, John catching her squint in the window’s reflection. “Is that Freddie Mercury?”</p><p>Freddie, who packed his figurative, nonexistent bags right after their successful performance of Queen’s most iconic song ended, sat in the back, taking Billy’s place. They were on their way home. Mike had just dropped off Kate, Sarah, and Wilkes. Billy was going to spend the night at Eddie’s with him and Freddie. </p><p>This whole evening was… something. Exciting with the breaking in, terrifying when Freddie used his powers to keep them in place, and lovely when Sherlock smoothed it out, presenting everyone with a solution that will work for each of them. And even lovelier when Sherlock kissed him on the temple out of nowhere. That shut off his brain for a good minute, hah.</p><p>The best thing was that Sherlock basically confirmed any and all of John’s small observations, and in the spur of the moment, right after Freddie scared the shit out of them by yelling, a kick from the universe made him finally ask Sherlock out. And he said yes!</p><p>But he couldn’t <em>not </em>wonder about the what-if, if Freddie hadn’t interrupted back then. Curse that musically talented ghoul. Would they have kissed? Unlikely, maybe it’d make this thing between them more awkward. This wasn’t a rom-com. But he was silently pleased that the deductions he used on Sherlock truly turned out to be true in this case. Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate (he took it both times that Sherlock grabbed his hand), and then the quick peck on the temple. </p><p>John glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. The curly boy stared at the road ahead, enjoying the amicable silence. Freddie chatted up Billy who sat on his knees, unbuckled, turned back to talk to the ghoul. It was when Sherlock turned his head in John’s direction that he realised with panic he had been staring. He bit on the inside of his cheek and tried to pretend he was checking up on Irene. Yep, she was alive, hurray!</p><p>“We’re here, guys,” Mike said, stopping the minivan. John let out a relieved sigh. Thank God, he needed fresh air. Once the courteous goodbyes were exchanged, he hauled one Irene’s hand over his shoulder, Sherlock mirroring him on her right side. </p><p>“Fucking Mother Mary left me on read,” Irene said, head hanging low. “Told her about the stairway to heaven bro. I warned about the fucking stairs. Even Harry Anderson knew.”</p><p>“Sure, Irene.”</p><p>“I’ll send her a prayer of complaint.”</p><p>“Whatever suits you.”</p><p>As they passed the living room, they heard a low growl, nearly animalistic in nature, soon followed by a crack of glass. That woke Irene up properly.</p><p>“Is that the Romans? Judas, why did you?”</p><p>“Greg?” John called, rushing into the living room. His uncle turned to face him, hair a bird’s nest. Oh no. “Soap opera?”</p><p>“Fuck cliffhangers!” Greg swore, stamping out and upstairs into his office. Oh well. It was bound to happen eventually. The last time John saw his grunkle this upset was three years ago for the same exact reason. </p><p>“What happened?” Sherlock asked him once he came back. He made Irene sit on the stairs, his befuddlement apparent; he’d never seen Greg like this before. </p><p>“Don’t mind that, he’s just really passionate about TV characters,” John said, helping Irene stand up again. “And no more slurpees for you, young lady.”</p><p>“Fuck no, Satan, you’re absoltely fucking right,” she groaned. John stifled a laugh. He couldn’t take this offensively if he tried. “It was that Jesus dude. Said I stole his sandals and I had to pay. My last judgement.”</p><p>“Alright, I’ll make sure to get you a nice sauna in hell,” he told her as they ascended the stairs. Once on the first floor, Sherlock flipped the lightswitch on. Irene’s stomach grumbled audibly. </p><p>“Oh no,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth as a gag gurgled in her throat. She stumbled out of their grasp, running towards the bathroom. John and Sherlock winced as her upset stomach made itself known, Irene’s retching echoing through the hallway. </p><p>Sherlock sighed, though a smirk lifted his cheeks, making his cheekbones stand out more. “I’ll get her pyjamas. And my phone. I resisted back at the theatre, but this is too good an opportunity to pass once she stops vomiting.”</p><p>“You’re a menace, Holmes,” John said, failing to sound apprehensively. He shook his head, marching into the bathroom to hold Irene’s hair up. “And get that ibuprofen you have left!”</p><p>“Duly noted, Doctor Watson!” Sherlock called back, winking at him. </p><p>The thrill of the chase regarding the nature of Sherlock’s feelings may be over, but the fun has only now begun. And he would rise up to the challenge, and take Sherlock on the best date he ever experienced. </p><p>Finally. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ<br/>finally indeed<br/>and yeah, Freddie is not really Freddie, but it's the effort that counts and he sounds amazing! we'll certainly be seeing more of our new friend</p><p>Also, pretty neat how whole 5 episodes fit till the second to last day of this hellish year, eh?<br/>Which means I'll see you next year with a brand new episode 6! *I'll see myself out*<br/>The boys finally be movin' their asses, ha<br/>btw, this time next year we will have finished the whole of season 1 - and then we'll jump onto season 2 in the following new year, hehe<br/>Just a fun fact! My calendar is filled with my posting schedule, I love how nicely it fits.<br/>Writing this fic gives me life, and I'm happy I can share it, and I can't wait to show you everything there is in this AU mega crossover world :3 we're just getting started! thank you for tagging along for the ride &lt;3</p><p>Reichenbach Falls episode 6 - A Boxed Match - will be back on January 5 2021~</p><p>Updated: 30.12. 2020<br/>Word count: 5380<br/>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care, and may the Force be with us in 2021 *dont let me jinx it*</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. A Boxed Match I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a question</p>
<p>episode 6, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi peeps, new year, new episode! <br/>I wish you all the best in the year of 2021, don't let me jinx it<br/>Also, I'm tired, how are you?<br/>Anyway, thank you all for reading &lt;3 I hope you'll enjoy this episode!<br/>Special thanks to Bee, Dee, and my coffee I have next to me, without which I'd be a zombie</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mom! Come look at this!” A girl, maybe ten years old, shouted excitedly at her single accompanying parent. Her mother, a thirty-something woman whose worn out features pronounced the dark bags under her eyes, manhandled a twin stroller to change directions and navigated it to where her daughter stood. “There’s a hybrid minotaur!”</p>
<p>“Minotaurs aren’t real, honey,” the woman said groggily. She scanned the area for any sign of a coffee machine. Oh, how she’d kill for a cup. She crouched to take out napkins to wipe her sleeping twins’ drooly faces as her daughter insisted that she looks and admires God’s handiwork. “Honey, I told you -- OH MY GOD, WHAT <em>IS</em> THAT?”</p>
<p>Her daughter climbed onto something furry, big, and exceptionally ugly, even beyond what human comprehension would call ‘bearable to look at’. It had parts of a bear, a goat, a horse, and a pair of mouldy antelope antlers. Plus, all four of the creature’s legs were wearing pink and green slippers, hideous as they were. The true crime here was the disastrous fashion choice. Its face showed a grimace, baring its prosthetic teeth that were glued to the otherwise empty and organically toothless snout. </p>
<p>“What kind of sick pervert would display something so unnatural?” the mother cried out, hauling her daughter from the dead creature’s proximity in case it suddenly came to life like in those B-rate parody movies that used CGI more outdated than was allowed. “Anna! We’re going home!”</p>
<p>“But moooom!” Anna wailed. She dragged her feet behind her mother and two siblings, glancing at the monster. “It’s so cute!”</p>
<p>“I should’ve taken up the therapist,” Anna’s mother muttered on her way to the car, hurrying to get out of there. </p>
<p>Inside the gift shop, Greg faintly registered the family commotion outside. He could care less about the cash he’s just lost. Right now, he was dealing with…</p>
<p>“Anderson,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, doing his best not to let aggravation show in his voice. “Can you choose one t-shirt, pay, and get out? You’re more indecisive than a kid who gets to choose between cookies and candy!”</p>
<p>“But, Greg!” Philip Anderson, the local news (trash) reporter, said. He showcased him two t-shirts he liked especially well. “There is an important distinction between ravens and crows! How can you expect me to make a decision when both birds are equally fascinating?”</p>
<p>“For God’s sake, take both, one, or neither -- just get over with it and get out please. You’ve been a pain in the ass since ten o’ clock. Don’t you have an article to write about the local beavers or something as underwhelming?”</p>
<p>“That’s rude,” Anderson frowned, and stubbornly turned his back on him. Greg’s left eye twitched. Now Anderson was taking his time just to spite him. The doorbell chimed and in walked Sherlock and John. Greg jerked his chin up in a silent greeting. </p>
<p>“Hey Greg,” John said, leaning his hip on the cashier’s desk. “Uhm, didn’t you go shopping yesterday?”</p>
<p>“I did, why?”</p>
<p>“There’s almost nothing left in the fridge…”</p>
<p>“Considering he had a mental breakdown after being left on a cliffhanger, he must’ve eaten during the show to relieve stress,” Sherlock said nonchalantly. He snooped around the magazine stand, sniffing disapprovingly at the unruly sorting. “Or maybe at three A.M. in the morning, judging by the bags under his eyes.”</p>
<p>“No need to flaunt it in front of everyone,” Greg grunted, taking less offense than Sherlock probably expected. “Yeah, sorry. I went berserk. Justinkopnik has <em>just </em>dealt with his transphobic mother and then boom -- his trusty stallion was poisoned! <em>Poisoned</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh no, it was Justinkopnik?” John winced. He scratched his neck and rolled up the sleeves of his yellow shirt. He knew very well what that program did to Greg. “I thought you blocked that channel after you thought they killed Justin off?”</p>
<p>“I did! But they aired it on Channel Six now, too!”</p>
<p>“And now the TV’s in the bin,” Sherlock chirped, switching a gardening journal for a crossword. He turned the whole stand around a few times, looking at what else to improve so that it was visually pleasing. “At least the window was open and sustained zero damage. Worry not, Lestrade. Also, why are you concerned about me ‘flailing around’ your stress eating habits? The only other person aside from us three in the gift shop is that preposterous journalist with a kink for furries.”</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon?” Anderson gaped from the t-shirt racks. Greg’s features settled into a poker face. John pursed his lips and averted his gaze to the dusty ceiling. Sherlock took no notice. “You called me preposterous?”</p>
<p>“Ah, so I was right about the kink?” Sherlock lightened up and his head made an appearance from behind the magazine stand. Greg gave up. He knew from Irene and John that Sherlock indulged in experiments of stranger nature. Hell, John even reiterated some of Sherlock’s ‘deductions’, how he called it. Truth be told, it would sound a bit incredulous if he hadn’t known a person who indulged in the same hobby. But as much as Anderson was a pain in Greg’s fancy French Canadian ass, he wasn’t sure he wanted to witness the deduction of his personal <em>sexual</em> life. </p>
<p>“How did you…?” Anderson was torn between rage, surprise, and fear. </p>
<p>“Just a stretch, really,” Sherlock dismissed. He came to the front, eyes twinkling. “I observed that you --”</p>
<p>“Yep, enough!” Greg stopped him before this got even more embarrassing and uncomfortable. “We don’t need the details, Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me, but who are you?” Anderson puffed angrily, crossing his arms. Greg groaned internally, rolling his tired eyes at the prideful idiot of a journalist before them. He often reminded him of a cocky rooster asking for a fight only to run for cover the moment the real threat showed up. Anderson turned to him, apparently expecting support from him. “Greg, you know this weirdo?”</p>
<p>Greg spoke as John opened his mouth to undoubtedly speak on the contrary, beating him to it. Despite his occasional exasperation with Sherlock and his mould experiments, he wouldn’t stand this form of ostracizing. Sherlock barely huffed at the name. “He’s <em>not </em>a weirdo, Philip. He is the son of a very good friend of mine. Sherlock is just very perceptive and honest. And he has no filter when it comes to social cues.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, ‘perceptive and honest’? He called me preposterous!”</p>
<p>“You’re the one who keeps working for that dreary newspaper.”</p>
<p>Anderson’s jaw dropped. He valued his work above his colleague’s and put himself on a high pedestal because he had gone to college in California for journalism. Where did that land him? All he did was write the gossip column with the occasional interview of the rich. Which, by the way, Greg hated with the undeniable passion of a Chinese God of Vengeance. </p>
<p>“<em>Charms and Malice</em> is not dreary!” he defended, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat collecting as much dignity as he could gather. “Whatever. I can see I won’t be appreciated here! You just lost a customer, Greg. I don’t need some nancy boy to creep me out when I’m on my vacation!”</p>
<p>And with that in mind, he adjusted his awful short-shorts that revealed <em>way</em> too much than should be legal to show, and stormed out in what Greg guessed was supposed to be a dramatic fashion. It didn’t work. Anderson bumped into the doorframe on his way out, cursing under his breath. </p>
<p>“Christ, he’s a prick when you criticize his work,” Greg sighed, circling the cash register. He clasped the boy on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Sorry about that, Sherlock. He shouldn’t have called you a weirdo, or any name for that matter.”</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” Sherlock shrugged indifferently, wiggling out of his touch. Fair enough. He lifted his eyebrows at Greg and John (who seeped silently while Greg sorted the situation out) as if this was an everyday occurence for him. Sherlock put up a cheery smile, a little too forced if you asked Greg. “Nothing can compare to the name calling in London. Really, I don’t mind. People are idiots, anyway. I merely stated the obvious.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but not everyone likes that, you know?” Greg said softly, patting him on the back. Sherlock could put up layers of facade, but he saw right through it. The words cut deeper than he let on. And from what Millie had told him prior to his coming to Reichenbach Falls, it sometimes got nasty. “Anyway, I’m putting up a rule: don’t deduce people’s sexual preferences. Not on this property, at least. Alright? I sure as hell don’t want to know what this town’s people like to do in their beds.”</p>
<p>“Duly noted,” Sherlock said and rolled his eyes for good measure. He shrugged Greg off and trailed out. He glanced at the clock above the cash register and turned to John. Something about their interaction seemed lighter. “I’ve got to get going. Mrs Hudson and Irene must be waiting. Are you sure you’re not coming?”</p>
<p>“No, I need to make a call first, sorry,” John said apologetically, stuffing his hands deep in his jean shorts pockets. Sherlock looked him over head to toe, raising an eyebrow quizzically. “I’ll join you in a bit, though. I’ll take Greg’s car.” </p>
<p>Sherlock’s response was a deep hum, and the doorbell chimed as the doors smacked closed. </p>
<p>“Wait, where are they going?”</p>
<p>“Mrs Hudson is taking them -- us -- to Angelo’s for lunch since you devoured last day’s shopping,” John explained. He stood in the aisle, fingers tapping against his thighs. He was nervous. Greg took his time to relinquish the view. John Watson was <em>rarely </em>so fidgety. And something told him he knew what was going on. The helpless, cute look he gave to Sherlock betrayed him enough, in fact. </p>
<p>“What’s going on?” Greg decided to play dumb, though he couldn’t mask the smugness behind it. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning. Oh, the Johnlock Roulette bet was just <em>starting</em> to get interesting. Two can play the matchmaker, as Irene had pointed out. “You haven’t called Harry in a long time, as far as I’m aware.” A very, very long time, in fact.</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s not about Harry,” John shook his head, wrinkling his nose. The Watson siblings had a strained relationship for years, ever since she moved out to live with their grandmother. Better move on from this topic entirely.</p>
<p>“What is it, then? Did something I’m not aware of happen? Don’t tell me that that mould Sherlock took is suddenly conscious and sentient.”</p>
<p>John huffed a hollow laugh. He rocked on the balls of his feet, eyes narrowed on the scratched, grimy wooden tiles. Oi, spit it out, Watson! “No mould problem… yet.”</p>
<p>“Okay, then nothing can be as dreadful walking fungi, can it?” Greg poked him, and John finally met his eyes, although he stayed sheepish. </p>
<p>“Depends what you call dreadful,” John said, squaring his shoulders. He took a steadying breath. Whatever Greg had expected was swept under the rug by John’s straightforwardness. “Greg, I need dating advice. Where should I take Sherlock on our first date?”</p>
<p><em>OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING</em>. <em>WAIT, DON’T SHORT CIRCUIT YET, FOCUS.</em></p>
<p>Greg blinked, and an almost irrational sense of happiness filled his whole being. He could jump over the fence like a newborn foal and call it a day, die, and rest in peace in Valhalla. He let himself laugh and pulled John into a bear hug. “Finally! Jesus Christ, John. It’s taken you <em>ages</em>.”</p>
<p>“Whoa, steady there,” John chuckled, feebly patting Greg’s back when the hug started blocking his airways. “I had no idea that me dating was so important to you. You sappy old man.”</p>
<p>Oh, happy didn’t even begin to cover it. Delighted, yes. Elated, that too. But mostly ecstatic, though he couldn’t explain that to him as to why exactly. Things were a lot more complicated than he’d like to admit. But this -- this was a step in the good direction, and without his intervention needed. Christ almighty, how glad he was. Maybe this would help solve his problem until summer reached its end…. </p>
<p>“So what?” Greg released his nephew, grinning like a fool. Oh, this was exceptionally good news. John mirrored his mirthful expression, albeit timidly. Ah, there was the blush and head scratch. “I care about you, this <em>is </em>important.”</p>
<p>“What’s important?” Kate asked, barging into the gift shop. Her shift was about to start. She looked from John to Greg, depositing her purse behind the counter. </p>
<p>“John’s taking Sherlock out on a date,” Greg said, grinning even wider when Kate squealed and threw herself around John’s neck. His flush was evident now, and he chuckled nervously as if he were in danger. </p>
<p>“Finally!” Kate sighed, patting his cheeks, eliciting a glare from John. “Don’t look at me like that! You know fully well the whole Shack’s been waiting for this!”</p>
<p>If only she knew. </p>
<p>“When did you ask? Was it yesterday?”</p>
<p>“Uhm, yes. At the…. you know. At the theatre.”</p>
<p>“OH MY GOD I WAS RIGHT! GREG, PAY UP!”</p>
<p>Damn, she guessed correctly? Greg hadn’t realised the timing until she had so tactfully pointed it out. Greg huffed and reached for his wallet, drawing out two fifty dollar bills. John looked from him to Kate and back, jaw falling open. </p>
<p>“You had a bet going on?” he said incredulously, running a hand through his hair. </p>
<p>“Of course!” Kate fluttered her eyelashes at him. Greg shrugged, feigning innocence. “Did you think we’d pass up an opportunity like this? Irene started it, she calls it the Johnlock Roulette. Watching you and Sherlock dance around each other like you’re yin and yang has been the most fun we’ve had. <em>And</em> you’ve made me $120, which makes me even happier!”</p>
<p>“I only gave you a hundred,” Greg said.</p>
<p>“Yeah, but Irene put in a twenty. Gotta collect taxes later. Heee! All my stars aligned for perfection!”</p>
<p>“I’m glad to be the source of your serotonin and dopamine dose of the day,” John said, shaking off the overjoyed Kate and his initial surprise, “but we steered from my original question. I’m not sure where to take Sherlock out on a date.”</p>
<p>“A dinner?” Greg suggested, shrugging. “Angelo’s has a romantic atmosphere. Or Speedy’s.”</p>
<p>John’s eyes widened momentarily at the mention of the latter, and he vehemently shook his head. “Nope. Not Speedy’s. I don’t think Sherlock’s into fancy places like that. Doesn’t seem his style.”</p>
<p>“You’re right,” Kate said, tapping a finger against her chin. “Hm. OH MY GOD, I KNOW!”</p>
<p>Greg and John jumped at the sudden exclamation, and Kate dove for her purse to retrieve a piece of shiny paper she then handed to her boss. Greg took it, skimming over the scattered words across the page. “Okay, I see words. And I understand them separately.”</p>
<p>“Oh shit, that’s just my format tryouts,” Kate said, hastily snatching the paper from Greg, switching it for another. “<em>This</em> is what you should read.”</p>
<p>“Hm…. No,” Greg said at last, done reading the information on Kate’s leaflet. </p>
<p>“But Greg!”</p>
<p>“What’s on it?” John inquired, taking the leaflet from his uncle. It announced an undisclosed, yet undecided party that would take place on the property on the twenty-fifth of July. “You want a party at the Shack?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not,” Greg said, his mouth pressed into a soft lopsided shape. Not completely refusing the idea, however. That was one of his tells.</p>
<p>“<em>But Greg!</em>” Kate whined, hanging onto his white shirt sleeve. Greg put on a poker face. “We’re young! We need to party every once in a while!”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m old,” he countered. “I like serenity and peace and quiet sometimes, ya know? And I don’t see why exactly you’d choose the Shack for a party anyway. It’s not the most appealing of places besides the abominable attractions we glue together with glitter and broken dreams of tourists who thought our merch was cheap. Seriously.”</p>
<p>“That’s not true!” Kate objected vehemently, flailing her arms around in protest. “The Shack is rustic, it fits the Oregon atmosphere <em>perfectly</em>! And I have a plan and figured out where it would be.”</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“The room next to the museum? It’s the biggest one on the first floor.” She began to tie her long black hair into a complicated, yet classy bun. “I even made a new Pinterest board to know what kind of decoration will fit.”</p>
<p>“And who would clean it up when it’s done and over with?” Greg asked, challenging Kate. As much as she could be organised, her shifts at the gift shop sometimes suggested otherwise. Plus, in spite of the house being mostly cluttered with junk and spiderwebs, Greg liked to keep it in its place; an organised chaos he got comfortable with where nothing stood in his way but it also made the Shack feel less empty when John went back to university and Kate attended her own school once summer ended. </p>
<p>“Why, me, of course,” Kate replied, an air of dignity propping her chin up defiantly. “I clean up after my messes, Greg. Not after tourists, because what they spill on the floor is plain DISGOSTANG.”</p>
<p>“Preach,” John cheered, his enthusiasm abated undoubtedly due to recalling a few incidents. The shiver he shook off confirmed it. </p>
<p>Greg wasn’t fully convinced yet. “I’m not sure I want loud music to rattle the house, Kate. And not everyone would necessarily get in. The back room is indeed big, but it has its limit.”</p>
<p>“Oh, please! Pretty please, Greg,” she begged, pouting and putting on her best puppy-eyed stare, hands clasped together in a prayer gesture. </p>
<p>“Hm,” said John, tilting his head to the side. “You could sell tickets to those who want to get in. People do ask for fees. You’d have the opportunity to scam locals, Kate gets to have her party, simple solution.”</p>
<p>“Yes! Exactly, thank you John,” Kate smirked. “<em>And</em>, there goes your and Sherlock’s date!”</p>
<p>John blinked, Greg barely suppressing his own smirk. “Do you think that’s… acceptable for a first date? Shouldn’t it be, I don’t know, more secluded?”</p>
<p>“Why not? There’ll be so many people, no one’s going to notice you boys. And there’ll be food and stuff to drink --”</p>
<p>“No alcohol,” Greg said pointedly.</p>
<p>“-- <em>no</em> alcohol, and there’ll be karaoke and music! I can see you guys having fun. If anything, you can take a breather outside if it gets too much and have a romantic walk in the forest. Fireflies are out this time of year”</p>
<p>“Huh. You do have a point,” John conceded, nodding his head. Kate smiled contentedly, both of them turning to Greg to seek approval.</p>
<p>“You promise to set up the room yourself?” Greg asked. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir!”</p>
<p>“Promise to clean up afterwards? Any mess your party people make?”</p>
<p>“Reluctantly, but yes!”</p>
<p>“Hm. Promise to organise the rest of you kids? And most importantly -- no people under eighteen. I’m not setting up kindergarten.”</p>
<p>“Of course!”</p>
<p>Greg heaved a sigh, a calloused hand shooting up to rub at the nape of his sore neck. He could use a massage, but that luxury was out of the window. No time. He just needs to lie horizontally for a few hours and he’ll be back in shape. “Fine. But I want to see your plans printed out, step by step, and a copy of it tomorrow morning.”</p>
<p>“Yee! Thanks, Greg!” Kate squeaked, throwing herself around Greg’s figure to hug him. He choked out a startled ‘ouch’ when she stepped on his foot, giggling madly. God, what has he agreed to? “I’ll make sure it’s perfect. For you and Sherlock too, John.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Kate. The suggestion does seem nice,” his nephew smiled tentatively. “What do you think, Greg?”</p>
<p>Said grunkle ruffled John’s hair (much to his bemusement), pulling him into another hug and patting his back. “Just go for it. First dates are usually winged, anyway. Who cares? It’s important you two enjoy it.”</p>
<p>“True. Jeez, I have a feeling of deja vu. Did I dream that we had this talk already?” he huffed a laugh, and Greg did too, if a bit nervously. He pried himself from his nephew, bumping his shoulder. </p>
<p>“Dreams vary,” he shrugged, walking towards the exit leading inside the inhabitable part of the Shack. His worn-out mood got the better of him. “Now go catch up on the lunch at Angelo’s. Imma go nap on the couch.”</p>
<p>They bid each other farewell, leaving Kate to gloat over her Pinterest board and fully delve into party planning, no matter that her shift has started. Once settled on the couch, Greg sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubble. This was going to be a long summer. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Sherlock let his forehead rest on Mrs Hudson’s seat headrest. The car’s engine lulled him into a haze of daydreaming, leaving him to his thoughts. Irene, recovered from last night’s brain freeze, talked to Mrs Hudson about trivial stuff like politics and knitting (she kept making references to that dreadful webcomic of hers). </p>
<p>Events from yesterday’s evening kept resurfacing, breaking out from his Mind Palace and roaming free, messing up his logical and rational side of the brain. He couldn’t help but over-analyse that moment his and John’s eyes met, smiles tender and sincere. And then John asked him out on a date. Like, <em>whoa</em>. <em>A date</em>. With <em>Sherlock</em>. It was safe to say that what Sherlock felt since then could be described as: ridiculously happy. </p>
<p>There were two reasons why Sherlock hesitated to give in to his feelings. Firstly, the mere thought of exploring his inner demons on a deeper level made him shiver. He’d lost an important figure in his life once already, his older brother Mycroft who went missing when he was seven years old, leaving a gaping hole in his young, small chest as he expectantly waited for months for his brother to come back. Then, a couple years later, he lost contact with his then-best friend, Victor Trevor. They dated, briefly, as much as fourteen year olds can date. That one didn’t hurt -- the ‘breakup’, if you can call it that. But losing a friend in whose company he had spent countless hours in? That hit differently. </p>
<p>As a result of these, namely the first reason, he steeled himself for any sort of further entanglement. He failed, of course. On numerous occasions. He and Irene, for example, had an unbreakable bond, even though it could border on knives, blood and murder at times. He loved his mom and step-dad, too, naturally. He never got the chance to meet his biological father, the man having died when Sherlock reached eight months of age. Fritz, his step-dad, took the role of a father seriously, and they got along very good. </p>
<p>And presently, John flounced into Sherlock’s life, taking up all the space whenever they were in a room together. Even if not, he usually stayed on Sherlock’s mind, roaming the Mind Palace under construction by his imaginary side. And as he’d previously contemplated and reeled over ever since John confidently asked him out after they’d solved the Freddie Mercury case. John called it the ‘Nightmare at the Opera’, a nice word play on the authentic album from Queen where the famous Bohemian Rhapsody featured. </p>
<p>Sherlock gazed out of the window, sighing dreamily, a smile tugging at his lips. Ridiculous, truly. He discovered that since yesterday’s evening he smiled a lot more than usual. Even Irene started to notice, but he hadn’t the time yet to explain what had ensued the night before while she recalled twisted events from the Bible, most of them fueled by her meme knowledge and slurpees. Then she proceeded to retch in the bathroom for an hour once they got back from the theatre, John in full doctor mode (which, weirdly enough, made Sherlock weak in the knees despite not being the one receiving medical attention) in the meantime that Sherlock filmed some of Irene’s best quotes. He wouldn’t show her yet, though. </p>
<p>His mind wandered to John again. He expected their interaction to be a bit awkward before they actually went on the date, but…. everything felt strangely at peace. As if they’d done it already, the dating. The domesticity, the anticipation without dread, just the thought of being comfortable in the other’s proximity…. Another tiny wave of faux deja vu crept up on him, sending a prickle of electricity up his neck, creating a minutia of tension as if to draw his attention to a concrete memory, similar to the feeling he’d had at the beginning of July when he and John met. </p>
<p>A bump on the road hitched up the car, tearing him from his reverie. Irene stared into her phone, nonplussed, Mrs Hudson at the wheel, humming along to an unfamiliar song. His eyes roamed over Irene’s figure, taking in her clothes. She chose to wear a pink skirt with purple dots today, a lilac t-shirt to go along the outfit. A fuzzy pink sweater fulfilled the picture, resting on her knees. Why she had the need to drag the obnoxious looking piece to Angelo’s, Sherlock had no clue. Fashionistas, every bit as mad as scientists. </p>
<p>Mrs Hudson parked her car on the curb on the opposite sidewalk of the street. Sherlock sucked on his lower lip, pondering when it’s going to be a good opportunity to tell Irene. Hm, actually… Mrs Hudson didn’t know either. Perhaps both of them would like to know at the same time? He cleared his throat.</p>
<p>“Uhm,” he began, willing the women to linger in the car for a tad longer. “I… have an announcement. Yes, I do.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Mrs Hudson raised an inquiring eyebrow, watching him from the rear view mirror. Irene locked her phone screen, tucking the device into her skirt pocket. He had their underlying attention. </p>
<p>“What’s up?” Irene asked, her face innocently blank. </p>
<p>This shouldn’t be hard, yet it felt as though he was about to tell them that he was moving to Brazil to raise alpacas. <em>Stupid</em>, he told himself. He realised he hasn’t said a word. “I… that is….” He sighed, running his large palms over his thighs. <em>Get over with it</em>. “John asked me out on a date.”</p>
<p>The demonic screech he elicited from both of them, he supposed, was a means of affection and happiness, even though it startled him beyond the regular human levels of spooked. </p>
<p>“Oh my God! Really?” Irene beamed at him, and he had to laugh at how giddy she was over it, albeit his shoulders slumped shyly. </p>
<p>“About time, too,” Mrs Hudson added, dabbing at her damp eyes with a handkerchief. Sheesh, did they have a bet going on or what? Surely they had better things to do than hustle over his and John’s infatuation. </p>
<p>“Where’s he taking you?” Irene asked, clapping her hands together in a semi-evil fashion. “OH! You know what this means? You get to show off the purple shirt of sex I bought you for your birthday!”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, and his eyes flicked in the upkeeper’s direction, but Irene ignored his indignation. Mrs Hudson didn’t mind the implication Irene flaunted in front of them (though, let’s be honest, this wasn’t about hooking up on their <em>first</em> date, that much was obvious). “Can you stop that?”</p>
<p>“Stop what? I’m my authentic self, brother-mine,” Irene smiled, pulling him into a bad-angled hug that almost broke his neck. “My ship is sailing! I can’t believe I lived to see the day!”</p>
<p>“I’m sure Sherlock would love to discuss the date tip with you later in private, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, winking at him, and Sherlock desperately needed to escape the confines of the car. <em>Why</em> did he decide to do this? Thankfully, Mrs Hudson offered him an out. “Come on, you must be starving.”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand how Greg could’ve eaten a whole bag of groceries by himself,” Irene said, tiptoeing out of the vehicle right after Sherlock. </p>
<p>“Well, at least he doesn’t starve himself,” Mrs Hudson murmured, leading them across the street like mother duck to Angelo’s. </p>
<p>Inside, they settled into a stall in the middle of the diner, Sherlock sat near the window, Irene graciously sliding in next to him while Mrs Hudson seated herself on the opposite side of the cubicle. Since it was lunch, a number of people came in to eat the cook’s delicious meals. After a short reading of the menu, Irene made up her mind and said she’ll have a french toast. Sherlock chose to go with the omelette. </p>
<p>It was then that Angelo introduced himself, his waiter having gone for a ten minute break. “What will you have, lovelies?” he asked brightly, his infectious smile shining on them like the sun. He had a notepad in hand, a short pencil in the other. Frequently used, the diner was visited by locals mainly during lunch hours giving the place high traffic. </p>
<p>Sherlock observed Angelo, he hadn’t the chance the last time they got there to eat pies. Angelo had an italian accent, chubby cheeks and wrinkles around his eyes from near-constant smiling. Age-wise, he was close to Mrs Hudson -- early or mid-fifties, possibly. He interacted easily with his customers, knowing most of them on a first-name basis. His hands were strong and muscular, daily put to good use for kneading homemade dough. His apron was stained from sauces, shoes worn out from standing up for hours on end, this being an active job. A peek at the kitchen behind the counter told Sherlock that Angelo had one additional helper, a young woman with bright red hair and complementing brownish lipstick. However, she mostly operated the bar and milkshakes. </p>
<p>“Hello, Angelo, dear,” Mrs Hudson swooned and gave the cook a warm smile of her own. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Angelo’s hands once more. No wedding ring or a band. He should’ve noticed it at first glance (<em>file it away</em>). “Sherlock will have an omelette, and Irene and I will have your splendid french toast.”</p>
<p>“Will do, Martha,” Angelo jotted down the order. “Anything else? All’s on the house.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no. Angelo, I’ve got to pay, don’t be silly!”</p>
<p>“I insist, Martha! You’ve been too kind and helped me lots of times to let you pay.”</p>
<p>“I mended your suits,” Mrs Hudson tisked, still smiling. Sherlock felt like a third wheel, and upon exchanging confused looks with Irene, she felt the same, albeit used to it at this point, having practised on Sherlock and John, presumably. Awkward. “And you keep saying that every time I stop by! You’ll go bankrupt if you don’t let people pay for their meals!”</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t let casual people have meals on the house that often,” he winked at her, mischief sparkling in his eyes, and he retreated to the kitchen. Angelo shouted the order out loud, put on his chef’s hat, and proceeded to dish out their meals in record time. </p>
<p>“Enjoy, lovelies!” he said, putting the plated meals in front of the hungry kids and Mrs Hudson. </p>
<p>The upkeeper giggled like a schoolgirl and picked up a fork. Sherlock looked down at his own omelette and he had to admit -- it smelled delicious. He eagerly dug in, letting the taste spread in his mouth. The yellow curds were tender and buttery, and there was even a hint of cheese (parmesan?) on top of chives decorating the top of the dish. </p>
<p>Irene enjoyed her french toasts just as much, if not more. The toasts were crispy on the outside, taken off the heat just in time to remain soft on the inside. They were soaked in spices -- cinnamon, vanilla, strawberries on the side for additional juiciness and sweet tanginess… And it smelled heavenly. Angelo was a brilliant, Italian wizard. Or mage. Sherlock had no proper knowledge of magical classes in Italy. Yet.</p>
<p>Sherlock finished his omelette in under a minute. He sighed contentedly, resting a hand on his stomach. Mrs Hudson nodded when her eyes met his. God bless this place. He let his sight wander amok, blissed out. His brain slowed down, refusing to make deductions until he digested his lunch. </p>
<p>However, something caught his attention nonetheless. </p>
<p>Sally Donovan and her younger colleague, sargeant Dimmock, animatedly gesticulated behind the bar, sharing anecdotes from work. What didn’t escape Sherlock’s never-ending scrutiny was the fact that Sally kept glancing at another person throughout her conversation with Dimmock. Henry. </p>
<p>Henry, the local ‘lunatic’. An enigma of his own kind. Sherlock theorised what may have happened, but the journal provided no valid information on cryptids that may have accidentally crossed his way and caused his current state of being. Henry had gotten lost on a camping trip with his friends months prior, and when he had been located, he shut himself off. He avoided canines at all cost, and at first he had isolated himself from everyone. Only recently had he begun going out again, much to everyone’s dismay. Truth be told, he was perfectly harmless, if a little eccentric. </p>
<p>It seemed that the whole town had broken the cane over Henry, except for Sally (but why would she persist?). And possibly Lestrade. Even Henry’s father seemed to have accepted his son’s incapacitation, partial loss of memory, and mild insanity, though begrudgingly. He’d planned to retire and leave his business to Henry, his only son. That was thrown out the window, however. Life went on. </p>
<p>Henry picked at his food, muttering to himself. He ‘<em>hmpf’d</em>’ every now and then, then he giggled and took a bite. He never made contact with any of the customers, or Sally. There was distinct sorrow glimmering in the corner of her eye while she laughed at Dimmock’s stories. These two were another mystery worth investigating, Sherlock decided. </p>
<p>Sherlock yelped when Irene poked him in the ribs with her neatly manicured fingers. </p>
<p>“Shove aside, I need to pee,” she said, not waiting for Sherlock to move. She basically pushed through, throwing Sherlock’s legs to the side vigorously. “And don’t eat my food. I’ll know.” Sherlock stuck his tongue at her once she disappeared in the restroom. </p>
<p>“Manners, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson scolded him, even though an impish that flickered in her eyes betrayed her sternness. Sherlock sniffed and stole a strawberry from Irene’s plate. She never liked them much, anyway. </p>
<p>Suddenly, the small television hooked up above the milkshake mixers turned up its volume. An advertisement starring Mr Ripper, a buff man from the neighbouring town of Madison Prim who acquired a tiger eye transplant, raged on in the square telly. </p>
<p>“DO YOU WANT TO FEEL LIKE A MAN?” Mr Ripper yelled, his tiger eye twitching. Few customers hummed in agreement. “THEN COME AND WRITE YO’ SELF UP FOR A BOXING MATCH TO PROVE YOUR STRENGTH. LIKE A MAN!”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s eyelids clipped, his irises doing a double-flip in his eye sockets to see if he had lost any brain cells. So, Mr Ripper was one of those guys -- as Irene loved to call it -- who liked to shower in sweat, blood, and testosterone. </p>
<p>Mr Ripper went on, and the camera followed him as he sat down on a gym bench. Blurry figures of men doing their exercises using available equipment moved in the distance. Mr Ripper licked his mustache and pointed a beefy forefinger at the audience. </p>
<p>“Listen,” he said gruffly. “When I was a lad I ate four dozen eggs every morning to help me get large. And now that I’m grown I eat five dozen eggs on top of my certified steroids!” The camera displayed a can of Mr Ripper’s trusty chemical pills. “BUT IF YOU REALLY WANT TO BE A STRONG MAN YOU SHOULD COME AND JOIN OUR BOXING CLUB. THE MATCH WILL BE HELD AT THE END OF AUGUST, DATE TO BE SPECIFIED. EVERYONE IS WELCOME. THE MEN WHO WIN FROM THEIR PAIRINGS WILL MOVE FURTHER IN THE COMPETITION. AND THE ABSOLUTE FINALIST WILL WIN A LIFETIME MEMBERSHIP TO MY GYM! <strong>WHAAA!</strong>”</p>
<p>Mr Ripped whacked himself in the face with a brick, the clay crumbling to dust on impact with his skull. Madison Prim was…. Curious. Several men around the diner cheered and clapped to that. The jingle ended and the telly resumed playing the news. </p>
<p>“I’ll write myself up for the boxing match!” one short man exclaimed, jugging down a glass of fizzy, blue soda. </p>
<p>“Pfft, as if they’ll even let you,” another man snorted. “They don’t take sissies.”</p>
<p>“Who you callin’ sissy?”</p>
<p>“You’re both dumb if you think you need to enter a stupid boxing match to prove you’re a man,” Sherlock said, heads turning. These were just two idiots of a whole who’d get into a pointless brawl. Non-threatening. Mrs Hudson mumbled something about his manners again and pretended to be interested in paper napkins. The diner fell dead silent. “What? Oh please, obviously you have complexes. Or at least most of you do, if you need to go to such lengths.” </p>
<p>The shorter man jumped up on his seat, pointing at Sherlock. “I won’t stand some posh faux Brit insult me! Who do you think you are, anyway? You’re thinner than the rim of my glasses, I’m sure the wind would blow you away in one swoosh. You wouldn’t stand a chance in the arena.”</p>
<p>“Yeah!” someone else joined in. “Just look at you! Tryin’ to lecture us what is manly and what’s not while you look like you’re made of porcelain. He’d break sooner than the referee would announce the start of the fight.”</p>
<p>Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, ready to deliver a cutting observation about some of their sexual preferences (this wasn’t on Lestrade’s property), but Sally Donovan beat him to it. “Both of you -- shut up. He has a point, and neither of you starting a fight over it will help you. <em>Drop it</em>.”</p>
<p>The men did drop the topic, although muttering illegible complaints. The diner flow resumed after that. Some residual awkwardness hung in the air, but Angelo’s cooking aromas flooding the dining area cleared it out. Angelo thanked Sally for resolving the issue, and she saluted Sherlock, who nodded in acknowledgement.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s hand jerked as Mrs Hudson touched his knuckles. “Don’t take them seriously, Sherlock,” she said soothingly. The hint of pity in her voice made Sherlock’s skin crawl. “You’re a fine young man, you don’t need to listen to that stuff.”</p>
<p>He raised his eyebrows at the upkeeper. She meant well, he knew it, but… The pity was obvious. Was it true, then? That others perceived him as weak and fragile? Did John see him like that? That… that could potentially harm his, what, attempt? to pursue a further relationship with John.</p>
<p>“I’m going outside,” he announced, getting to his feet. He needed a smoke -- badly. “I’ll be back soon.” Sherlock quickened his pace near the exit, when he felt his foot stumbling against an unforeseen obstacle. He did a sort of undignified skip to avoid tripping, getting a snort or two from the other customers. </p>
<p>Sherlock pushed the doors open, not turning around to see Mrs Hudson’s forehead wrinkle. He stepped down to the sidewalk and took out one of the cigarettes he had stolen from Lestrade. Absentmindedly, he lit it up and drew in a long breath, held it for a few seconds, and then exhaled. Ah, refreshing. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>New ship on the horizon!<br/>Also, a bit more of insecure Sherlock waiats us in this episode because he's a smol bean, and he wants to be perfect for John, which he is, he just needs a dose of confidence.<br/>Which he'll get later~<br/>Next update in 5 days (10th)!</p>
<p>Updated: 5.1. 2021<br/>Word count: 6571<br/>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. A Boxed Match II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which we meet Anthea</p>
<p>episode 6, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>wheeee, hello, and welcome to a new chapter!<br/>thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy &lt;3<br/>Special thanks to Bee, Dee, and my knitting needles. I'm making a scarf</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock smoked the first cigarette in under thirty seconds, so he took out a second one and repeated the action. That calmed his nerves. But the nicotine kicked his mind into overdrive. <em>Was </em>he made of porcelain? <em>Was </em>he weak? If so, was John aware of it, and what was his opinion of Sherlock for that matter?</p>
<p>“Couldn’t help but notice what you said back there,” a male voice on his left said. Sherlock frowned at the young man next to him. He was almost as tall as Sherlock, but had broader shoulders and wore shades that completed his casual summer attire. His dirt blond hair was cut short, but not too much as to create a dumb look for him. </p>
<p>Sherlock hummed, not interested in conversing at the moment. He had an internal existential crisis going on.</p>
<p>“But don’t you think it’s worth the experience?”</p>
<p>“If you think getting bruises counts as time-worthy experience,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, not caring whether the guy noticed or not. </p>
<p>“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be a prude. There’s no entry fee, anyone can join.”</p>
<p>“And why exactly are you trying to convert me?”</p>
<p>“No reason in particular. I’m Sebastian, by the way. But call me Seb.”</p>
<p>“Sherlock Holmes.”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Sounds familiar. So, Sherlock -- wouldn’t you even try?” Seb said, quirking a fair eyebrow from under the shades. “I’m a ‘pupil’ of Mr Ripper, if you will. Despite the ads, he’s a nice dude. It’s all a show, mostly. He’s prone to more theatrics ever since that eye transplant, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“So this is recruitment,” Sherlock said, letting the cigarette butt fall on the concrete. He extinguished it by stomping on it, the sole of his foot suffocating what was left of the cig, his suppressed anger powering the notion. “No, thank you.”</p>
<p>“But why not? Wouldn’t it be nice to show them that you can inflict pain just as well as receive it? Release the pent up stress?” </p>
<p>“That would be quite hypocritical of me,” Sherlock said, pocketing his lighter. It had the gay pride flags imprinted on it. While stress relief sounded nice, it wasn’t too practical when there was a possibility to gain stress fractures in turn, was it? </p>
<p>“Aren’t we all hypocritical at some point in our life?” Seb elbowed him in good humour. Sherlock made a poker face. “That’s something we gotta <em>remember</em>, eh?”</p>
<p>He did have a point. Wasn’t he already being hypocritical up till recently when it came to his feelings for John? Surely this case of hypocrisy included less dignity loss. After all, no civilian in this town knew him for Sherlock to give a damn. But -- he could give it a try. </p>
<p>Sherlock sighed and observed the incoming red car turning right to park on the curb. A tall brunette in a black tank top and ripped jeans stepped out, tied her long hair in a ponytail, and took out her phone. She started speaking in another language as she dodged an overly affectionate dog on a leash. </p>
<p>“I’ll consider it,” Sherlock said, and Seb patted him on the back. </p>
<p>“Cool! You can sign up until the end of July,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Maybe the two of us will get <em>matched</em>.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps.”</p>
<p>“I am excited already! You’re not just some scrawny kid, I feel it in my bones, eh? Here’s my number in case you do change your mind. It’d be nice to see you <em>again</em>,” he lowered his sunglasses to wink at him. Sherlock pocketed the card on which Sebastian’s number was written on in a clear font. “Well. Gotta go. See you around, Sherlock Holmes.”</p>
<p>Seb scurried off. Sherlock registered Lestrade’s car pass by. John waved at him from the window and he parked the vehicle just behind Mrs Hudson’s. John swiftly got out, grinning at Sherlock as he locked the car. Crossing the empty road, their eyes met and Sherlock felt his lips forming a smile reciprocating John’s. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, and something inside told him he had made the right decision not to suppress his brain’s chemistry in this case. He can overthink John’s opinion of his physical prowess later.</p>
<p>“Hungry?” he asked John, following him back inside. </p>
<p>“Starving,” John winked, holding the doors for him. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>When Irene returned from the restroom, only Mrs Hudson sat at their table. Of course, she has heard the hassle that was Sherlock’s ‘honest’ tongue, as well as the other men retaliating like kindergarteners. As if commenting on how someone looks ever got you anywhere. Idiots. </p>
<p>“He’s smoking, isn’t he,” she stated more than asked. Mrs Hudson nodded, worried wrinkles twisting her mouth. “Don’t frown, he has a habit.”</p>
<p>“Well, he and Greg can shake hands,” the older woman said unhappily. “Smoking, I swear. I’ll stuff those cigarettes down their throats eventually.”</p>
<p>“Whatever floats your boat, Mrs Hudson,” Irene said, sniffing at her french toast. Sweet cinnamon. She arranged the plate to her liking and snapped a picture for her instagram. “He ate a strawberry, didn’t he?”</p>
<p>“The moment you turned your back to him.”</p>
<p>“Predictable. That git.” She took another mouthwatering bite and swallowed. Mrs Hudson’s head kept drifting towards the kitchen where Angelo began singing. In italian. Plain as a day, this. “Aw, since when do you like him?”</p>
<p>“Sorry?” the woman looked at her, alarmed. She looked around to ensure no one was listening. Quite impossible in the half-stuffed diner of a small town that was hooked on gossip columns. “I… Well… I don’t actually…”</p>
<p>“Oh my God, you’re totally blushing!” Irene giggled, pointing her fork at the upkeeper. Mrs Hudson covered her face in her soft hands, stealing a look at Irene and then at Angelo who just delivered another serving of food to a neighbouring pair of customers. Irene lowered her voice for the sake of faux secrecy. “You’re so cute! So, how long?”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing, really,” Mrs Hudson said, folding her paper napkin over and over. “I… I’m not a schoolgirl anymore to be having a crush…”</p>
<p>“Mrs Hudson -- no one’s too old for love.”</p>
<p>“No, they’re not. But… I’ve just been out of the game for too long.”</p>
<p>“Well, then you’re lucky because I’ve just became a professional Matchmaker Supreme!”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, Irene…”</p>
<p>Irene put up a hand. “I mean it -- I’ll help you! Angelo clearly likes you too, and it’s no shame if a woman asks a man out! If you’re worried, I’ll be more than happy to assist.”</p>
<p>“Oh, well if you insist, then so be it,” Mrs Hudson said after considering her words for a minute. She sipped coffee from her mug that Angelo had brought her during Irene’s short absence. A treat on the house. </p>
<p>“By the way,” Irene leaned closer conspiratorially. “What do you think of the boys going on a date?”</p>
<p>The squeal Mrs Hudson made earned them funny glances. Neither woman cared. This was basically Christmas coming early. A happy day for the shippers. She couldn’t wait to get to the Shack and tell Greg. Oh, this will only improve from here, she was positive. </p>
<p>“Finally!” Mrs Hudson put a hand over her heart. “I was getting worried after what happened at the beginning of….” She trailed off. </p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Irene frowned. There wasn’t anything bad between John and Sherlock as far as she was aware. </p>
<p>“Oh… Nothing, nothing!” the woman stuttered, downing the rest of her coffee. “Silly me, mixed up the town drama with something else!” Mrs Hudson laughed good-naturedly, brushing the matter off. Irene got a funny feeling and she scratched her temple. There was sudden pressure on it, but nothing hurtful; not a headache. An underlying sense of <em>knowing </em>presented itself, but Irene couldn’t make out what it related to. Nothing of importance, then. </p>
<p>As Irene dug into her food once again, John and Sherlock strode in. Mrs Hudson greeted them, scoffing at Sherlock who faintly smelled of cigarette smoke. John scooted in next to Irene and Sherlock beside Mrs Hudson. </p>
<p>The upkeeper asked Sherlock about his mould experiment, and he immediately got to listing all his observations. Irene stole a glance at John, who sat leaning against the backrest, looking at Sherlock from under his eyelashes in between typing something on his phone. </p>
<p>Angelo reappeared, notepad in hand as he took John’s order. He’ll have blueberry pancakes. As Angelo turned to leave, Sherlock stopped him to order coffee for himself. John took the opportunity to nudge Irene’s knee with his own and pass her his phone under the table while Sherlock wasn’t looking. </p>
<p>John’s note app was opened, and the following words written:</p>
<p>
  <em>Help? Personal, concerns Sherlock. Nothing bad. Will explain in private? If yes, put the phone face-down. Don’t want Detective Shezza finding out before I want him to. ty</em>
</p>
<p>Irene forced herself not to smile, grin, or do anything incriminating with her mouth or facial expression that would let Sherlock sniff this out. She pretended to be on her own phone under the table and put John’s on the leathered cushion face-down. The smile he gave Angelo when he brought him his food could be described as satisfied. And that wasn’t only due to the mouth-watering pancakes. </p>
<p>Now <em>this </em>was the Tea. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Sherlock kicked a pebble out of his way, pacing in front of the mall. He refused to get inside and meddle among ordinary townsfolk who indulged in <em>small talk</em>. Even the thought alone sent shivers down his spine and made his hair stand up. In the past two weeks he had been asked how he was doing more than ever before in his life. Bloody social Americans. </p>
<p>So, here he was, walking himself into oblivion because of his dislike for public places. John, Irene, and Mrs Hudson went in, all needing to shop for groceries or other useless products. They wouldn’t talk him into entering that hellish box even if it was the last thing on earth to save him from the inevitable doom going by the name of boredom. </p>
<p>He looked at his phone watch. They have been gone for fifteen minutes. ‘<em>It’s going to be a quick grocery shopping, Sherlock,</em>’ they said. ‘<em>We’ll be back sooner than you say quack,</em>’ they said. Or rather, Mrs Hudson did. He <em>did </em>say quack, and guess what? They still wasted their brain cells inside shopping for God-knows-what. And Sherlock was getting <em>irritated</em>. What is so complicated about buying groceries? You go in, find what you need, throw it in the cart, cash it, done. Happy ending. Fin. You go home. <em>That’s how it should be like</em>. Quick and effective. </p>
<p>Sherlock kicked another rounded pebble out into the road. A car drove by, its chassis dirty from dust accommodated from driving on the dirt roads and dry weather that dried out and powdered the otherwise fertile soil into annoying particles that stuck to every surface and exposed body parts. The parking lot had been mostly deserted, only the occasional reverberation of rumble of car doors and trunks closing with loud thumps carrying itself to Sherlock’s ears. </p>
<p>He had to occupy his mind, <em>somehow</em>. His brain, however brilliant, offered a rather conflicting distraction, holding it out on a silver plate like a hunting prize: let’s think about John! That never gets old. But that would lead him down the lane of overthinking his insecurity, and he knew fairly well how that would affect his good mood. Not going to happen. Maybe later at the Shack.</p>
<p>But what else was there to think of? He hadn’t progressed in his search for the author of the mystery journal, neither were there clues presenting themselves to aid his cause. Truth be told, he was too preoccupied with the current random mystery solving than uncovering the journal’s origins. Too many cases kept popping up; they barely managed to pay attention to their original goal. He wondered how Sam and Dean managed to get work done if there was an onslaught of numerous cases. He’ll ask John to text Sam and relay the query. </p>
<p>He yanked his phone out of his pocket in frustration. His limbs started getting the fuzzy antsy feeling when he got impatient. Only three minutes had passed. He gripped the phone case and blinked fervently to remain calm. <em>What was taking them so long?! </em>Sherlock resisted the urge to call Irene and passive-aggressively demand they come back and drive them home. No, that would be childish. He had made the decision to stay outside, so he’d have to suffer through it. But it was <em>booooooring</em>!</p>
<p>A small slip of paper drifted inches away from the tip of his shoe. Sherlock pinned it to place before the faint summer breeze blew the paper farther away. He recognised it -- he pocketed a similar leaflet that day when Lestrade took him and John out on the Reichenbach Lake. Lestrade had given this to Sally instead of his fishing permit, but it turned out to be a coupon for a free boxing session at the local gym. It must have fallen out when he grabbed his phone. </p>
<p>It read:</p>
<p>
  <em>Private boxing sessions supervised by A. 
This coupon guarantees you a free* try-out class with the trainer. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When: any day during work week between 1-8 p.m.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Where: The MET Mall</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>*coupon needed in order to claim the free class</em>
</p>
<p>Sherlock arched his neck to look at the mall’s sign up above: <em>The MET</em>. He groaned, and glared holes at the crumpled piece of paper. He seriously considered Seb’s offer of joining the boxing tournament. In the end, no opinion mattered. Except for John’s and occasionally Irene’s, that is. He couldn’t care less about what insecure middle aged men thought of him. </p>
<p>And Sherlock did fight, when the opportunity presented itself. If by ‘opportunity’ you mean defense against physical bullying at school. He knew a trick or two, but those were not granted under the circumstance of learning it because it was <em>fun</em>. It had been necessary. He had convinced Mummy to let him take up boxing classes when he attended highschool, just to be safe. He liked it well enough, but he didn’t do it out of some recreational desire to get stronger. This, however, could be a conscious decision Sherlock will make for himself because he is genuinely interested in the sport. Exercising granted him a peace of mind. That, plus he has the one free session to determine whether he wants to continue or not. </p>
<p>Another three minutes passed. No sign of his crazy people he associated with. Resignation huffing in his lungs, Sherlock walked inside, confidence taking over his posture like armour in a practised seamless motion. </p>
<p>He didn’t have to go far to look for the gym. The resort was built into a large section of the ground floor, stationary bicycles lining the view inside. The interior was well-lit by ceiling lamps; the walls were white but decorated here and there in gigantic motivational quotes that held no tangible value. Few people exercised inside as it was midday during a work week, but still enough to make Sherlock quicken his pace. </p>
<p>On the back of the coupon he read that A, whoever they were, had a solitary room in the back of the gym they rented. He made it there, circling around treadmills and dumbells stinking of sweat. He scrunched up his nose, but pushed through. </p>
<p>The back room had sliding doors instead of classical ones. He double checked to make sure he wasn’t venturing into the showers or toilets -- no need to embarrass himself right now and get flashed by naked bodies of strangers. What if John and Irene spotted him?</p>
<p>He slid the doors aside and stepped in from that God-awful grey carpet of the gym onto polished wooden boards. The room was spacious enough to host a small group of participants; mats for warm-ups were rolled up in the left corner and canes of differing lengths were propped against the opposite wall. A faint smell of incense lingered in the air; recently ventilated. </p>
<p>“Can I help you?” a woman asked, closing a built-in closet. Sherlock’s colourful irises skimmed over her, deducing what he could. </p>
<p>She was a head shorter than him, brunette (frequently ironed hair, possibly, to straighten it; shoulder length, done in a bun), confident judging by her open posture and hands resting on hips. No rings on fingers -- single, or not in a serious relationship? No earrings either, or any jewels for that matter. Impractical during workout. </p>
<p>“I’m looking for someone named ‘A’,” Sherlock said, showing her the coupon. She took it wordlessly and examined it. </p>
<p>“You found her,” she said, looking up at him, her brown eyes piercing through him. “Name’s Anthea. But if you want to claim the session now, I’ve bad news. I already have another client scheduled.”</p>
<p>“No problem. I just wanted to check if it is still applicable.”</p>
<p>“Of course. I’m free tomorrow between three and five in the evening. Sounds good?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Sherlock nodded. He’ll sneak out of the Shack, that won’t be hard. “Are you going to test me if I’m right for the course?”</p>
<p>“Anyone’s right for the course,” she said, expression unreadable but firm. There was something aloof and yet guarded about her. She fished her phone out and asked for Sherlock’s name to put in her calendar, frowning upon hearing it, fingers hovering above the screen briefly before entering the information into a pixelated box with rapid efficiency. Sherlock was used to a variety of reactions to his unusual name, this being the mildest. </p>
<p>“So, Mister Holmes,” Anthea said, giving Sherlock a professional look, hands clasped behind her back. “We’ll start at three, the session lasts an hour. If you’ll find it useful, we can sign you up for further classes.”</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded, rubbing his arm. He scoffed at the formalities. “Sherlock, please. Should I get more comfortable clothes as well?”</p>
<p>“Naturally. They allow for a bigger range of motion.” </p>
<p>“Alright… Thank you.” Anthea responded with a half-hearted salutation and retreated back to the wardrobe again. Of course, logic dictated that change of clothes was in order, but Sherlock couldn’t help but frown at the idea that someone may see him in his less than usual grace. He’ll have to sneak it out. He had packed four pairs of sweatpants and had five more t-shirts apart from his pyjamas to change into. Jeans, trousers, and shirts with suit vests made up most of his wardrobe, but occasionally, he liked the comfort of cotton sweatpants when a lazy day begged to be had, which didn’t happen often but frequently enough to guarantee their use. </p>
<p>Just as he turned to leave, a taunting, whiny voice called his name. Wilkes. Sherlock gifted him a raised eyebrow as Wilkes, ever the prat, leaned against a stationary bicycle he’d been cycling on. “Is our posh boy thinking of straining his weak little muscles?” he tutted in a mockingly sweet tone. Undignified, he wiped the sweat off his brow using the collar of his t-shirt. </p>
<p>“Funny you should say that,” Sherlock countered. He leaned against the frame of the exit, the sliding doors wide open as he blocked the path. “Don’t people usually say that you shouldn’t skip leg days? So far it appears that you skip all the gym days. Oh, pardon me, you’re here now -- but that was prompted by your overeating yesterday as a result of stress resulting from the night at the opera. Good job burning a fraction of your calories.” He waved the bewildered Wilkes a cheeky goodbye, stopping once more to add, “And pink frosted cupcakes? I’d pick you for something more <em>masculine</em>.”</p>
<p>Sherlock clicked his tongue, gifting Wilkes a wink, leaving for the parking lot outside. Incidentally, the three of his camaraderie finally decided to leave the shops. They spotted him, carrying bags worth of groceries, plus some wrenches and screwdrivers for Mrs Hudson’s shed. The three of them were still a good distance away when the fuming Wilkes stormed out from the gym to meet Sherlock. </p>
<p>“Who do you think you can insult, you posh asshole?” he snarled, clenching his fists. A couple spectators gathered at the sight, Sherlock’s composure unwavering. <em>Is this the best he can do? People in London were more creative with their insults</em>.</p>
<p>“Anyone I deem an idiot?” Sherlock suggested, leaning backwards as Wilkes stepped closer, jaw set, a silent determination to punch Sherlock evident in his brown irises. </p>
<p>“What’s going on?” John asked, something about his calm demeanor converting Wilkes’ gaze to himself. The sweaty guy backed off, nostrils flaring. Sherlock shrugged, taking in the almost comical sight of John wearing Mrs Hudson’s knitted bag over his shoulder for easier handling. He looked as threatening as ever, a quiet challenge written in his posture. </p>
<p>“We’re not done here, Holmes,” Wilkes hissed as he backtracked into the safety of the gym. Sherlock watched him with an amused wrinkle of his forehead. The insult he used was new, but not the worst one. </p>
<p>“Dear me, what had gotten into young boys recently?” Mrs Hudson sighed, patting Sherlock’s arm. “All you do is snarl at one another like you’re some territorial wolverines in heat.”</p>
<p>“Interesting analogy, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, easing her of a pair of packed, heavy bags. She protested, but Sherlock hoped this would alleviate any further questioning. Irene looked at him, her inquiring pout of lips asking: <em>What was that about? </em>Sherlock’s response relied on an acrobatic roll of his eyeballs: <em>Classical idiocy. </em>They both acknowledged that with a scowl and they departed for the parking lot. </p>
<p>John’s queries about what got Wilkes so riled up were fruitless, and fairly pointless. Neither Wilkes nor Sherlock clicked, point blank. Both of them stood at the opposite sides of a spectrum where society was concerned. Wilkes taunted him, and Sherlock fought back using his wits -- clearly something the other boy lacked. But Sherlock wouldn’t get fussy or angry over it. Meanwhile John would. He had no idea whether his companions actually overheard Wilkes’ name calling, but more likely not. Irene, just like John, hated the taunts passionately, even if Sherlock stopped caring on the outside. A touching gesture, but of no real importance. It wouldn’t stop the verbal assaults from streaming in, especially when Sherlock provoked the other party to apoplexy and beyond.</p>
<p>As he deposited the shopping into the backseat of Mrs Hudson’s car, she asked who was going back in her car, helping her drop off her own groceries. Sherlock and Irene exchanged glances, indifferent. In the end, Sherlock climbed into the pickup, desiring a ride that wouldn’t be inevitably leading to the Wilkes debacle. Mrs Hudson was chatty, but she knew where to draw the line, tact being her valuable virtue. John, on the other hand, had concern receptors on the maximum when it came to everyone. Such was the doctor’s curse. But oh, had it send a fuzzy feeling into Sherlock’s stomach, knowing that he cared. </p>
<p>He settled comfortably in the passenger seat, legs splayed wide as there was more space with no one else to share it. He rested his brow on the window, eyes flickering to John’s -- Lestrade’s -- car, he and Irene already talking. A jolt of panic resonated through him at the possibility of Irene elaborating on Sherlock’s early years in middle school and highschool, but she wouldn’t take that into her own hands. It was a matter concerning Sherlock, and though he wouldn’t mind it much, he’d rather prefer it to stay in the past, locked away and forgotten. John would be troubled by the revelations, and Sherlock would rather he be spared the empathy, if only to save John from feeling bad about the past he cannot change. </p>
<p>Little did he know…</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry but not really, the insecure Sherlock train has only now taken off the station of Insecurity&amp;Misery co., and as such, we'll see a bit more<br/>But I promise that nothing vile will happen! not between the boys, they've been pining a lot for me to punish them like that, nah<br/>five days ago when I added the Angelo/Mrs Hudson ship I noticed that there was a possibility of Eurus Holmes/Mrs Hudson ship and I went ???????????????? whom's't've????????????????<br/>anthea, play the windows vista shutting sound effect</p>
<p>How are you peeps doing? I hope 2021 is gentle with you so far. School starts tomorrow and anxiety is kicking in full force! I've no idea how graduation is gonna be like this year, Jim Moriarty help me :'))<br/>I'll see you on the 15th!</p>
<p>Updated: 10.1. 2021<br/>Word count: 3951<br/>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. A Boxed Match III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are tips and nail polish</p><p>episode 6, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sup guys, it's friday~ finally, jfc. i'm tired of this week, but reviewing this chapter was fun!<br/>thank you all for reading &lt;3<br/>special thanks to bee and dee who read my analyses of spn nowadays, because I'm binging and preparing ~content~ also extra special thank you to my bed, it's always there for me but it seems like my alarm has something against this symbiosis</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene turned down the radio volume as John drove onto the main road. The Shack was good fifteen minutes from the Mall. Plenty of time to chat about her favourite gossip column: her brother. </p><p>“So, Johnny boy,” she said, enjoying this <em>very much </em>already. Part of her still couldn’t believe the day when these two pining idiots decided to take action had come. Ah, beautiful. God did exist after all! She did not even mind losing to Kate. Twenty dollars well spent. “What are your intentions with my brother?”</p><p>John glanced at her oddly, but humour crinkled the corners of his eyes. He coughed, the tips of his ears flushing slightly pink in colour. Fascinating how people reacted to her forthcoming attitude. John steered the wheel to the left as they navigated a roundabout. </p><p>“I see that you’re struggling,” Irene poked fun at him, biting her lip. John averted his gaze to the car’s roof for a brief moment, as if gathering strength. </p><p>“I am, because I may be desperately in lov--,” he said at last, clapping his mouth shut. Irene gaped. She blinked one, two, three times in a row, screaming internally. Number of responses whirled in her mind. “Shit, uhh….”</p><p>
  <em>WHAT -- IS IT WHAT I THINK IT IS? Well, that was kinda to be expected, I mean, look at you two -- WHAT, WHAT!! -- but really, you two idiots couldn’t be more obvious than you already are -- WHAT THE FUCK, IT’S THAT SERIOUS? -- but like, I’m proud? So proud? My ship is sailing? It is! -- YOOOO, BRUH, I WISH DAVEKAT HAD YOUR BALLS -- JOHNLOCK IS REAL -- to what do I owe the honour of your trust in me? -- FUCK YES! I WAS RIGHT!</em>
</p><p>Irene gulped down her excitement -- can’t scare John <em>now</em>. She put her hands in her lap, and smiled smugly. “Took you long enough.” John’s groan made her smile harder until her cheeks hurt. </p><p>John cleared his throat, undoubtedly in an attempt to make the atmosphere less awkward. “Uhm… Not what I meant to say per se… Can we ignore that?”</p><p>“Sure. It’s alright, I kind of figured,” she smirked, crossing arms over her chest. She relished the way John’s cheeks flushed, him doing his hardest to stay focused on the road ahead. “I mean, you’ve both been pining since day one. Now, tell me the details! Sherlock told me you asked him out. I need to know everything!”</p><p>“Thanks. But... Ugh, hold on,” John said, slowing down and parking on the side of the road lined by dark green pine trees. Mrs Hudson and Sherlock had taken a different route to drop off her own shopping at her house first. John turned the engine off, resting his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel. He turned his body to face Irene. “This will probably sound absolutely bonkers, but now that you mention the day we collided -- everything sort of stilled and felt as though it all clicked into place? Sort of like deja vu; my head spun, just… ugh.”</p><p>“No, I get you,” Irene said encouragingly, taking note of how John mentioned the deja vu. Hm. Probably a coincidence that he had found something comparable to describe it as such. “I think it’s adorable.”</p><p>John rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Thanks, I guess. This happened yesterday too. After Sherlock resolved the problem at the theatre I… looked at him, he did the same, and I couldn’t <em>not </em>ask him out any longer. Remember the night I fought Nic Cage and we burned the creepy fuckers? Yeah, that’s when I figured I gotta do something about it, but you knew that. And last night, there was no doubt that Sherlock feels the same way about me and I managed to ask him.”</p><p>“That’s all?” Irene bore her stern blue gaze into his hazel eyes, daring him to omit any detail. “You just shared a look? You guys are dumber than to take clues like that.”</p><p>“Well…. There’s the fact that he kissed my temple when I said something that helped him solve the case,” John admitted, startling slightly when Irene released an inhuman screech cooing over the priceless information. </p><p>“<em>HE DID?</em>”</p><p>“Yes? Yeah, I suppose you’re right about us being blind otherwise. That kind of sealed the deal for me.”</p><p>Irene tried to heed her hyperventilating and get it under control. <em>MY SHIP IS S-A-I-L-I-N-G. </em>“Alright, alright. Sorry, but I’m <em>incredibly </em>happy for you two twats right now. So, when and where do you plan to take him on your first date?”</p><p>John blew the fringe out of his eyes, starting the ignition. “When you both and Mrs Hudson went to Angelo’s, I stayed behind to talk to Greg. You know, he’s my confidante in this usually. And then Kate barged in, begging him to have a party at the Shack.”</p><p>“There’s going to be a party?” Irene repeated, excitement building up in her guts. She hasn’t been to one in a good while. And to have Kate in charge of the planning? Beautiful. “What did Greg say?”</p><p>“Took a bit of convincing him, but he let her,” John said, turning the wheel to the right. “And she said that I could take Sherlock to the party as our first date. In retrospect, I’m still unsure, so I figured I’d ask for your take on this. What do you think?”</p><p>Irene scratched the side of her nose. “Hm. If enough people go to the party, it will be crowded and you’d get lost easily if it gets overwhelming. Sherlock likes observing people and showing off to you, so I think you could make it a nice date activity.”</p><p>“Yeah, I thought of that too,” John nodded, sounding relieved. Comfortable silence stretched between them, unhurried as he considered what else to say. “I don’t want it to be too much or too little for him. Or for me. Just something simple we can enjoy. I don’t want to fuck it up. I care about Sherlock, Irene. I want you to know that.”</p><p>Irene’s heart squeezed at that, a sense of deep emotion overcoming her for a short moment. “I do,” she said, feeling proud of her boys. For one, Sherlock even announcing this has been a huge step for him (and in front of Mrs Hudson, too!), and for John to come and confide in her… If this is the fruits of labour of matchmaking, she’ll do it forever. </p><p>A flick to her ear roused her from her dreamy state of contemplation. “Ouch! What was that for?”</p><p>“The <em>Johnlock Roulette</em>,” John chuckled. “Seriously. Never would’ve thought I’d get a ship name.”</p><p>“I like it.”</p><p>“Me too. It’s kinda cute. But please, don’t bet on me again. I’d hate to disappoint, though Kate did seem elated to have won a hundred bucks.”</p><p>“In that case, I better find other victims for my ship games.”</p><p>“Cool. And don’t call me <em>Johnny</em>.”</p><p>Irene grinned. “Okay, Johnny. <em>Ouch!</em>”</p><p>~</p><p>“Well that was tedious,” Sherlock announced, kicking the attic door open to reveal Irene polishing her nails in the colour of midnight blue. She hummed, her focus quite literally unrelenting from the task at hand. Sherlock stepped out of his shoes, wiggling his toes to relax them. He took off his suit vest, unbuttoned his white shirt, and fell on his springy mattress face-down. </p><p>“Mrs Hudson complained about Mrs Turner?” Irene asked, lips pouting as she wiped an unwanted spill off her skin. </p><p>“Worse,” Sherlock said, but his voice was muffled, so the word came out as <em>‘Woos’</em>. He lifted his head, blowing curls out of his face, unsuccessfully. “She made me <em>talk</em> to that wicked woman. I must say, I completely understand Mrs Hudson’s opinion of her now. Mrs Turner even offered me <em>her cupcakes </em>and they <em>both </em>made me <em>eat it</em>. <em>In front of them</em>. <em>And I had to praise it</em>.”</p><p>“Such tragedy,” Irene nodded, but her attention span belonged undividedly to her fingernails. “Did you bring some?”</p><p>“In the kitchen,” Sherlock said, flipping on his back. That was more comfortable; no curls fell in his eyes. “Don’t eat it, you’ll get cavities.”</p><p>“You’re the one to speak. You have a tooth sweeter than the blood of Oompa Loompas.”</p><p>“Disgusting analogy. But yes, you’re right. That only applies to Mummy’s baking, and Mrs Hudson’s excellent pies, though.”</p><p>“Alright, I can’t argue with that. Want me to paint your nails?” </p><p>Sherlock rested his cheek on the cool pillow, lifting a brow at his step-sister. The polish was of royal blue colour, fairly dark in concentration. Ooh, was there glitter? That made the polish spark nice in the right light. </p><p>“Can you do my toes?” he asked, flexing them for good measure. </p><p>Irene gave him a stern glare. “I can smell the summer stank up here, Holmes. Go wash your dirty feet and then we can talk.”</p><p>“About the date?” Sherlock said, hating how hopeful it sounded. But the pent up thoughts that accumulated had made him desperate enough to vent to Irene, his support network. And if he’ll get painted nails out of it, what was the downside? They frequently had girls’ nights during their first year of studying in Canada. It helped both of them unwind and bitch about idiots. Except this time, they’d talk about something more special and nicer. </p><p>“Duh,” Irene said, pursing her lips into a sly smile. “Hurry up, you stinky Brit.”</p><p>Smiling, Sherlock dived into his trunk for a pair of clean pants, sweatpants, and his favourite burgundy t-shirt. The chilly day won’t cause him to sweat; finally no one will give him questioning looks about why he’s not wearing <em>shorts</em>. </p><p>He shuffled to the storey below, clothes thrown over a shoulder, hair brush in the other hand. He lifted his right arm to sniff at his armpit, nose wrinkling as he smelled the sweat. Ugh. This was disgraceful. </p><p>“Sherlock?” </p><p>He whipped his head around to see John hovering on the threshold of his room, slightly off to the left as the rooms in the house were designed with no such thing as ‘symmetry’. Sherlock froze, the sight of his friend (hopefully more?) surprising him. He had been in good spirits, and still was, but his heart rate spiked, not exactly knowing how to respond. </p><p>John wore blue jeans, feet bare, and he had a black t-shirt Sherlock hadn’t seen him wear up till now. There was a faded drawing of the Lion Rock from the Lion King. Fairly old by the state of it, the image in front washed out after years of usage. What John must’ve bought years back as a souvenir and was at first hideously baggy now hugged his figure, a little tightly across the pecs and biceps. <em>Okay, stop right there</em>. </p><p>One inexplicable part of his brain suggested he goes and kisses him right then and there (unromantic) or that he flirts (highly inappropriate since he smelled like a garbage monkey), or that he mutely shuts the bathroom door and waits until his talk with Irene to see how to proceed next (rather rude). </p><p>Sherlock resisted the temptation to slap himself in order to get his common sense working. <em>Stop thirsting and say something</em>, a voice similar to Irene’s said. Oh great, now she was in his head, too! He settled on, “Yes, John?”</p><p>John inhaled deeply through his nose, clenched and unclenched his left fist and gave Sherlock a tiny smile that had him melted in nanoseconds. “Can I talk to you for a second? It can wait until you’re done in the bathroom, of course but… I’d like to talk about our date.”</p><p>Sherlock blinked, gripped his hair brush tighter and tongued his cheek. Screaming internally, he forced himself to stay calm. <em>Talk about the date? Oh no -- is he going to say he hates me? Does he? Have I read it all wrong, did he change his mind? But what about yesterday?! Does he think I’m weak? What do I see? What can I observe? Nothing! Oh my God, what kind of detective am I?? </em></p><p><em>Think, Holmes</em>, Sherlock told himself. Don’t panic, that’s the first rule. John probably wanted to talk about where they’d go, haha, right? Right? Yes, that could be it. But… what if the date talk is going to be centered around some pitying apology that John would say, ‘Sorry Sherlock, but I checked my bisexuality and you’re not on the spectrum of my interests’? </p><p>No-no-no-no-<em>no</em>! Sherlock didn’t want to face that. Not yet. He can’t have his happy bubble pop and shatter today. Not when he opened up his small, shy heart. What did people do when they wanted to have a serious talk? Speak in private. Exactly! Sherlock will be able to avoid it as long as they’re in company… And he won’t have to listen to John take back what he’d said, or talk down to Sherlock because he thinks he’s weak… </p><p>He schooled his expression into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and said, “Alright, but come to the attic. Irene and I have a girls’ night today.”</p><p>“Actually,” John started, about to protest, but Sherlock was quicker, speaking fast as though he were delivering a cutting deduction.</p><p>“She’ll fill you in. You can choose a nail polish, too -- she has a wide sortiment of what you can choose from. See you in fifteen minutes!” And with a fake-playful wink he closed the bathroom door, careful not to bang them shut in his impending stress and panic. Good, this didn’t give John the opportunity to say no or protest. </p><p>Sherlock rushed to the shower and turned the taps on, not caring whether he got his shirt or jeans wet as he stripped next to the shower corner. Only when the water pressure was loud enough, he allowed himself to let out a suffering sigh. Emptying his mind of thoughts for the duration of his exhale, his brain kicked back into logical thinking. </p><p>
  <em>But John couldn’t be talking about not wanting to go on a date because he always is the one to exclaim how brilliant I am. There was this connection since that fateful day, the second of July, when the puzzle pieces seemingly connected. They’ve been ghost-hunting, fought a possessed Nicolas Cage doll and Disney Princesses, and made acquaintance with ghoul Freddie Mercury together. He’d said so yesterday. But what if? Today at the diner everything seemed fine. Why am I so quick to overreact? But as much as it’d be easy to clarify, I can’t seek it out -- the ‘what if’ is too strong, stripped me of any and all confidence I have in the interpersonal relationships sector, and I am drowning in the deep waters. Hateful!</em>
</p><p>As thoughts raced from one nerve ending to another forming theories, Sherlock tossed his underwear aside and stepped under the raining shower head, closing his eyes to let water wash away his worries temporarily down the drain. His muscles relaxed under the rhythmic spray of the fake rain, the scent of his lavender body wash helping the effect. He didn’t wash his hair yet; he’ll do it tomorrow once he gets back from the boxing session with Anthea. (Maybe if he slipped this piece of information to John, he wouldn’t think he’s weak, or?)</p><p>Sherlock turned the water off, air stilling and falling deafeningly silent around him. He dried himself off slapdashly, t-shirt glued to spots of wetter skin the towel hadn’t gotten to properly. He hung it up on a rack, unlocked the doors and left them wide open so that the moisture would not unpleasantly linger on the wall tiles. Though, thinking about it, examining bathroom mould would be new…. </p><p>Padding up the stairs, quiet as a mouse, he pricked up his ears like wildlife checking for its predator in case he heard John and Irene talking, but no muffled words reached him from the attic. He strolled into the room in long strides and practised carelessness, nearly staggering when his gaze fell on John lying down on his bed, hands tucked under his head like a pillow. </p><p>“Where’s Irene?” Sherlock asked, managing his voice that no hysterics were audible. Oh no, where is she? He can’t face this alone! Not now when his insecurities are skyrocketing! </p><p>“Went downstairs to fetch cucumbers,” John said, sitting up. He threw his legs over the edge of Sherlock’s bed, shooting him an apologetic look. “Sorry, I just sort of… settled here. I’ll sit on the rug.”</p><p>“No need, you can stay,” Sherlock waved him off, putting his dirty clothes on the floor close by the door. He will have to bring it down to the laundry room to get it washed. Where was Irene? It takes two minutes to go into the kitchen, grab the cucumbers, and come back! </p><p>Sherlock kept rummaging through his things; books, textbooks, his sock index, the journal… Whatever John wanted to touch upon regarding their date, he didn’t feel ready for it yet. Not until he had time to have a heart-to-heart with Irene so that she could slap the insecure thoughts silly and out of his genius brain. Grabbing the journal, he decided the best strategy to stall on John’s desire to chat was to counter it with his own. Rambling it is. </p><p>“Have I shown you the Colour Wheel?” Sherlock said, plopping down next to John on his bed. The mattress dipped under his weight and he bounced up and down as he settled, his shoulder brushing against John’s. He pried the leather-bound book open and half-shoved it in John’s face. </p><p>“Uhm, you did and I read it on my own --”</p><p>“Good, but let me explain so that we’re on the same page,” Sherlock cut in, spitting words faster than Eminem or Daveed Diggs in his rendition of ‘<em>Guns and Ships</em>’. And so the balance shifts. “As you can see, there are six colours -- well, seven, counting the grey halo around it. I call it the Silver lining. The whole drawing isn’t titled as ‘Colour Wheel’ per se, but it obviously is one. Primary colours of the rainbow. The outer inner circle is the widest, if you know what I mean; then follows this innermost wheel of colours that are artisitcally a mix of the primary ones. For example here,” -- he pointed at the stripe under yellow and orange -- “you can see that it is a shade that falls between the two. Same all around. What is more, each colour bears a symbol unique to it. Yellow has a bee, red has a rose, purple has what appears to be a pine tree, blue has a crescent moon, orange a sun, and green has a maple leaf. The middle is constructed of those black and white squares in which there is a triangle of the same scheme, and it has an eye. But that’s not the only thing! If you look closely, there is the number eight written inside the pupil. Isn’t it fascinating? I think this may have a bigger role -- there isn’t much information detailing what purpose it serves and besides, the silver lining has those three question marks so all in all it looks like it pinpoints another triangle and --”</p><p>“Okay, Sherlock -- stop. <em>Stop </em>and catch a breath, alright?” John interrupted his solo performance. Sherlock had only at that moment realised he had run out of breath, gasping for air. John looked at him with raised eyebrows, failing to suppress a smile. His warm palm patted Sherlock’s arm, an anchor to his chaotic burst of thoughts. “Easy there. I still don’t know how you manage to talk miles per second, but take a break. Besides, you’ve already told me all this.”</p><p>“When?”</p><p>“When Irene interrupted the other day? You were talking about your experiments but then she came in, you got petty, and then you switched the topic as if we were on it for hours. I thought you… remembered?”</p><p>Sherlock stared at the ground, wondering. <em>Did </em>he talk about it? His mind remained to be an enigma at times even to him. “Doesn’t matter, but I suspect that this plays some role in the disappearance of the author. It has coded messages, but there is no key!”</p><p>“Relax, we’ll find a way,” John said, leaning on his arm he put behind Sherlock’s back. If Sherlock didn’t know better, he’d think John sniffed the scent coming off him from his shampoo. <em>Keep talking, don’t get horny now -- inappropriate</em>. </p><p>“Yes, I’m sure of that. We should start searching for it this instant.”</p><p>“Now? But the girls’ night…”</p><p>“We can brainstorm while at it,” Sherlock said and tried to get up to stop himself from fidgeting, but John held him down by placing a hand on his shoulder. He withdrew it immediately -- not hastily, but the contact was short lived, unfortunately -- and stuttered a little. </p><p>“Listen, Sherlock, before Irene comes…”</p><p>“You guys! You won’t believe what I found instead of cucumbers! Pistachio, stracciatella, and cookies ice cream!” Irene pronounced victoriously, holding up the paper containers for them to see. Sherlock sighed in relief and reached for the pistachio treat, taking a teaspoon from his step-sister which she held between her fingers as though she cosplayed Wolverine. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to pick up on the tension she barged into, giving the second teaspoon and cookies ice cream to John and keeping what was left. </p><p>“I thought Mrs Hudson bought it for herself?” John said, perplexed, but he opened his container nevertheless. </p><p>“She did, but Mrs Turner soured her appetite,” Sherlock said, grimacing as the ice cold cream cut into his teeth, making him shiver. </p><p>In the meantime, Irene rolled out her assortment of nail polishes. “Choose whichever you like, John,” she said, prompting him to take a closer look. John put his ice cream aside, licking the spoon before sticking it into the cream like Excalibur. </p><p>“The purple polishes are nice, the darker ones,” he said, his tongue sticking out thoughtfully. “Ooh! This one has star glitter in it? And it’s <em>translucent</em>. I like this one.”</p><p>“For some reason I knew you’d choose it,” she said, snatching it from him and getting her things ready. “It’s a holo taco! That’s a reference to one Canadian youtuber you both should watch. Her name is SimplyNailogical.”</p><p>“I’ll check her videos out later,” John said, sliding down on the carpet, writhing his toes at Irene. She slapped his foot, and sat in front of him, cross-legged. “So, what exactly do you do during girls’ nights?”</p><p>“We can talk about the Colour Wheel,” Sherlock reminded him, holding the journal up. Irene pointed her blue painted finger in his general direction. </p><p>“No mystery solving, brother-dear,” she warned. She unscrewed John’s nail polish of choice, sniffing it, then mixing it with the tiny brush in the lid. “Girls’ nights are for relaxing and gossip. And ice cream. And occasionally astrology and tarot, but that is for like, third or fourth girls’ night in a row. For now, we have nail polishes!”</p><p>“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, closing the journal and tossing it under his pillow. Lying down on his side, he propped his head on his palm. The three of them formed a sort of triangle; John sat backed up against Sherlock’s bedside table, Irene at the end of his feet a little more to the middle of the room, and then Sherlock on his bed. “What gossip do you have, then?”</p><p>“None that I know of,” John said, shrugging. He giggled when Irene started applying the nail polish. </p><p>“Try not to move,” she scolded him, holding his foot in place. </p><p>“Sorry, it’s cold,” John said, digging into his ice cream again as Sherlock set his own down on the floor. He looked at Sherlock, teaspoon drumming against the paper container. “D’you have any gossip?”</p><p>“I do,” Irene smirked when Sherlock shook his head. He froze, John choking on his bite of cookies-n’-cream. Sherlock lay down on his back, hands in prayer and propped under his chin, waiting for the news. “Mrs Hudson likes Angelo!”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Obviously,” Sherlock said at the same time as John. </p><p>“Wait, really?” John looked from Sherlock to Irene. She was done with his right foot and moved onto his left. “Since when?”</p><p>“Probably forever,” Irene said, dipping the tiny brush in the polish again. “She is too shy to say anything, thinks she’s too old for dating.”</p><p>“That’s not true.”</p><p>“I know! My words exactly. So, I told her Kate and I can help her. Makeup, flirting, anything. I mean, it would be unfair to herself to keep pining and never say a word. Better admit it and let it out than wonder about the what-ifs, especially since she gossiped in the same fashion about you two twats. At least she agreed to let us help.”</p><p>Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, adding, “They are compatible. Both are natural caretakers, and Angelo openly adores Hudders. They’ll be dating soon, no matter which of them asks first. The other simply won’t refuse. Obvious, really.”</p><p>Irene coughed into her fist, bumping her chest a few times. “Sorry, choked on saliva,” she said, shooting Sherlock a short, pointed glance. <em>You’re the one to talk</em>. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up as she screwed the nail polish lid on. “John, you’re done. Don’t touch it yet, it’s not dry. Just sit where you are. Sherlock, give me your toes.”</p><p>“That sounds like something a serial killer would say,” John laughed, getting a confused glare from her. Sherlock’s giggle rumbled in his chest. “What? Take it out of context and it sounds questionable.”</p><p>“If you want <em>questionable</em>, look at Sherlock’s internet history.”</p><p>John choked on his ice cream and spoon. </p><p>“Not like that,” Sherlock said, groaning. “I’ve googled where to get an authentic human skull <em>once</em> and people think I’m insane.”</p><p>“Aren’t we all in some ways?” John smiled at him, slurping some of the melted ice cream from the container rather loudly. When he lowered it, he had a lot of the liquid above his upper lip, and Sherlock had to pry his eyes away not to stare, catching the briefest motion of John licking it away. <em>Temptation, my damnation</em>. </p><p>“In my defense, it was a very strange day,” Irene said, applying the same shade of blue nail polish she had on her fingers to Sherlock’s clean toes. “Actually, it’s all a bit blurry, thinking back… Huh. Nevermind. I know we were supposed to meet a friend, and he looked it up on our way there. It was still in Toronto, I think. He messaged me that he wants a human skull for his next birthday, to which I said that it is very illegal, and then he started contemplating <em>how </em>illegal it is to dig up graves that no longer have legible names on their headstones.”</p><p>“Oh my God, really?” John laughed, eyes crinkling. Sherlock found himself adoring his smiles with every single one he witnessed. “But why would you need it?”</p><p>“For the aesthetic, John!” Sherlock said, smirking. </p><p>“Sherlock, it’s <em>illegal</em>,” Irene said pointedly, painting his pinkie finger with care. </p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“Cemeteries are a property!”</p><p>“Are they?”</p><p>“Stop questioning me!”</p><p>“The Church, Catholic, Evangelical, or Anglican, can suck it up and kiss my --”</p><p>“I don’t know,” John said, biting his lip not to burst out laughing, “but you are well in the age of getting legitimately arrested. Oh boy, that’d be fun explaining to other prisoners. They’d ask, ‘Whatcha in for?’ and you’d be like, ‘I robbed a grave from the nineteenth century’ and then you’d add, ‘I wanted to feel like Hamlet’.”</p><p>Sherlock considered the scenario, tipping his head to his left where John sat. “I <em>would </em>say that. I like to feel vintage.”</p><p>“We know,” Irene sighed, rubbing her temples. She was now done with Sherlock’s toes too (or him as a whole). She opened her ice cream and munched on it. Her period was to begin soon. A week, give or take. It was late and making her tetchy.</p><p>“Well, I’ll let you know if I find a human skull,” John said, setting aside his now empty ice cream. Sherlock’s was slowly turning into goo, so he picked it up and started eating with gusto. </p><p>“You’re both nuts,” Irene sighed, blinking at them being hopeless cases. </p><p>“And you’re still talking to us!”</p><p>“It’s some sort of infection. Maybe from your stinky toes.”</p><p>Sherlock threw his pillow at her and she squeaked in surprise, barely dodging the onslaught. She set her ice cream on the floor and grasping the pillow, she surged at her brother, beating him with the softness harshly and mercilessly. Sherlock shielded his face, his forearms a line of defense, keeping Irene at arm’s length by using his legs. When John started laughing, Irene smacked him for good measure, and soon he joined with her pillow. It was a mess, there was lots of laughter, screaming, smacking, foul plays, and spilled ice cream. </p><p>At one point, Greg knocked on their doors to make sure they were okay and not summoning Satan or any other unholy creature of the night, which gave Sherlock ideas. However, he was immediately shunned by Irene (‘<em>Do NOT even think of summoning pirate zombies!</em>’) and John (‘<em>Nope, sorry. Siding with Irene on this one.’</em>), the latter jogging downstairs to fetch some more food and chilled sodas after. </p><p>Today, despite the unprecedented involvement of John’s, was one of the best Sherlock experienced in years. He didn’t get to talk to Irene that day, all three of them chatting and messing around until the wee hours of the night and morning, rendering him tired and drained after such energetic fun. The Talk could wait until later. Maybe his stupid, irrational insecurities will have vanished by then and he will be able to think logically again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry that Sherlock is still riding the insecure train, but worry not! It's gonna get better soon :) no serious angst guys, I promise<br/>Fun Fact: when Irene and Sherlock bicker about the skull, it's a real-life conversation of Bee and me respectively from like, July 2020? Yeah, it's mostly word-for-word, especially the "cemeteries are a property!" - "are they??" - "stop questioning me!" and also the Hamlet parts, lmao. also that the churches can kiss ass. I have catholic trauma! Yay~ (i'm projecting, can you tell?)<br/>Anyways, that's that. Next chapter's coming on the 20th!<br/>How are you guys? I hope you're good &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 15.1.2021<br/>Word count: 4965<br/>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. A Boxed Match IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Irene plays the Matchmaker Supreme and minor misunderstanding happens</p><p>episode 6, chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello~ I'm back with my delivery of fanfic<br/>thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy Irene helping Mrs Hudson with dating!<br/>special thanks to ABBA, whose songs I'm binging rn, it's lit (also Bee and Dee as always)</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene clapped her hands together and wiggled her fingers like an insane Bond villain, a wicked smile spreading across her face. “Alright! Let’s see what we can do to bring the inner beauty outside even more!”</p><p>Mrs Hudson stood by the doorframe of the kitchen, her forefinger tapping against her chin. Kate sat at the dining table, taking out her makeup kits, mirrors, brushes, and perhaps even sugar, spice, and everything nice. John switched her in the gift shop taking on her duty, Sherlock probably kept him company, and Greg was missing in action for now in the museum. Not for long, though. He’d promised to help them out. </p><p>“Won’t you sit down?” Irene prompted the upkeeper, and the woman wordlessly sat down across her and Kate at the table. Worried lines set at the corners of her mouth, but Irene kept on smiling. This isn’t anything dreadful. And since the great Johnlock Roulette was alive and kicking, she can set up Mrs Hudson and Angelo as well to pass the time before their two idiots became official. </p><p>“Dear me, is all that really necessary?” Mrs Hudson nodded at Kate’s gear and tools. </p><p>“Yes. Kate is a Michelangelo of today’s beauty industry,” Irene said, elbowing Kate. “And she’s good with brushes, you’ll like what she does! Once we’re done, you’ll faint when you see yourself in the mirror and how good you look.”</p><p>“Don’t worry Mrs Hudson, I’ll make you irresistible for Angelo,” Kate said, surveying her lipsticks. “Hm. Angelo is a simple guy. I think we’ll do good with less prominent tones. We need something soft and tender.”</p><p>“Agreed. Mrs Hudson, did you bring the dresses we talked about?”</p><p>“Yes,” Mrs Hudson said, lifting an eyebrow at how much beauty stuff Kate wielded. “They’re in the living room. Do you want to have a look?”</p><p>They went, and Irene closely observed the fabric and colour schemes of the dresses spread out in front of her. They weren’t bad per se, but some of them were in less than ideal condition, old and worn out. Irene’s tiny fashion heart cringed at that, but she won’t criticize it, they were still good dresses and she’ll make do with what they have. A couple adjustments that are quick and efficient will be enough. </p><p>“How about you go change and try them on? We can have a little catwalk in here, and you can show off the dresses better that way. I’ll see how they look and give you feedback accordingly.”</p><p>“Alright, dear. Which one should I start with?”</p><p>“Whichever you like! Let’s go!”</p><p>The first two dresses were a plain no-no. The third dress got moved to the ‘maybehaps’ category, to be continued on that front. Mrs Hudson’s fourth dress was fine-looking, smart, but too formal. The fifth dress had a nice summer vibe, but too much of a beach touch to it. Irene tried to be supportive and positive, but it became obvious Mrs Hudson started doubting everything. Irene had to step up her game, but fortunately, the right dress and divine timing collided to show off the perfect dress for Mrs Hudson. </p><p>Its abstract pattern combined orange and yellow hues, an A-line in design, and not even too loose around the chest or waist area, plus it was knee-length. The colours were washed out, but not too desaturated to look shabby or inadequate. </p><p>“This is the one,” Irene said, walking around Mrs Hudson to inspect the outfit thoroughly. She can wear flats or sandals in combination with this -- which means that Irene can paint her toes! Oh my, she even has the perfect shade for it! This is  p e r f e c t i o n. “Okay. Now, turn around so I can see how it flows. Oooh, yes! It <em>is</em> the one!”</p><p>“Do you think so?” </p><p>“I know so. It fits you, it’s your summer style, and Angelo will find you adorable for sure. He already does, this is just a nice bonus.” Mrs Hudson blushed, fingers playing with the hem of the dress. Irene gave her a sunny smile and patted her arm. “Now, let’s move on to some practical exercises.”</p><p>“Exercises?” Mrs Hudson asked, puzzled. </p><p>“Yes, we did that as warmups with our models before every fashion show, it helps ease the anxiety.”</p><p>“Alright, but could we make some tea first? I know that helps me every time.”</p><p>“Sure, let’s go see what Kate thinks. She’ll pick out makeup that will go well with the colours.”</p><p>Back in the kitchen, Kate arranged her weapons of beautification to her liking, feet up and resting on the opposite chair, her thumb scrolling by her social media. When she looked up, a squeal left her throat and she shook from excitement like a golden retriever puppy, writhing in her chair. </p><p>“Oh my Gosh! You’re stunning, Mrs Hudson!” Kate said, beaming at the upkeeper who blushed shyly. </p><p>“Oh, you. Fancy some tea? We’ve got time, as far as I’m concerned. We can relax a little.”</p><p>“Sure! Make it a girls’ party, too.”</p><p>“Greg’s joining us,” Irene said, taking a seat opposite of Kate while Mrs Hudson put on the kettle and located the tea and cups. </p><p>Kate merely shrugged at the news. “Greg’s as good as us. Guy earned a place at the table, don’t you think?”</p><p>“He certainly did,” Mrs Hudson agreed, taking out sugar and milk. “Irene, how do you like your tea? I’ve got a proper British brew in here.”</p><p>“Thanks -- a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar. That’s enough.”</p><p>“Alright. Go ask the boys if they want some too, will you?”</p><p>Irene jogged around the Shack, but both John and Greg declined. Greg was finishing up a tour, directing the tourists to the gift shop where John patiently waited at the cash register, ready to brush up on his skills as a scammer. He asked her whether she’d seen Sherlock, but unfortunately, it seemed like the genius hid in the shadows. Or he was taking a nap. It took Irene ten whole minutes to locate him in the attic, where he artfully and compactfully slotted himself under his bed, poking at dead spiders in the corner. She gave up on the why, opting instead to just inquire whether he’d like some proper tea. </p><p>“Tea?” he gasped, bumping his head on the metal frame of the bed. Irene grinned, stepping back to allow him to crawl from under the bed like some monster that creeps out kids and their dreams. They haven’t drunk proper homely tea in a few months. </p><p>“Yes, Mrs Hudson has a stash,” Irene said, noting a bit of wayward spiderweb lazily hanging from Sherlock’s shoulder and elbow. “Want a cuppa? We’re taking a breather, we’ve picked out a dress for Mrs Hudson. It’s lovely. I was thinking we could have face masks to help her relax even more, and then some of those fun exercises we did before fashion shows in Toronto, like balancing books on our heads and so on. Greg is going to join us soon. Wanna come down and keep us company?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged off all the dust and cobwebs he’s accumulated under the bed, walking over to the window to open it. It didn’t let any fresh air in, but it let bright sun rays stream in, as opposed to the usual coloured light in the shades of purple and red which glowed through the glass stained triangular window. </p><p>“I’d love to, but maybe later,” he murmured, gazing outside as birds chirped above on the rooftop, loudly debating and exchanging unknown opinions with each other. “I have to go to the town.”</p><p>“What for? I never knew you to refuse a cup of tea. Who are you, and what have you done to Sherlock Holmes?”</p><p>“How funny,” Sherlock said dryly, turning to Irene, arms crossed, a hip leaning against the windowsill. “I won’t be long. Actually… there’s something I’d like to talk to you about, but we haven’t had time to sit down and chat, so….”</p><p>“Yes? Is it urgent? If so, I’ll make the time now. No problem.”</p><p>Sherlock hesitated, but then shook his head. “It can wait. You have planned this before, with Mrs Hudson. Don’t worry about it, I’ll bring it up later today. I’d like us to be alone, though.”</p><p>“Alright,” Irene shrugged, but a prickle of suspicion rose in the back of her mind. Sherlock was fidgety, but not as anxious as he can usually get when something bothers him. He worried his lip, and his gaze was withdrawn, distant, focused on the floor. Contemplative. The beginning of overthinking, or its late stages. But what? “Will you tell me why you’re going to town?”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock snorted, and Irene stuck out her tongue at him. “I’ll be back at half-past five, I assume. I’ll leave before four.”</p><p>“That’s in half an hour,” Irene looked at her wrist watch, brows furrowing as she made out the tiny handles of the clock. It should be shameful how she had trouble telling time from classical wrist watches, but who could blame her? And especially in an age where the world was becoming more and more digitalised! Telling time the traditional way required effort she didn’t bother sparing it. “Sure you don’t want that cuppa?”</p><p>“I’ll have some later,” Sherlock decided after a few seconds of wordless humming. “Is John still in the gift shop?”</p><p>Irene smiled. “Yeah, I think so. Ripping off tourists like a pro.”</p><p>“Good. And Irene?” Sherlock called after her as she made for the stairs. She stopped to give him a quizzical look. “Don’t forget cucumbers for the masks.”</p><p>~</p><p>Greg waved a hearty goodbye to the group of tourists from Oklahoma, Michigan, and Spain and let the door leading to the gift shop fall shut. The second it closed, his shoulders slouched, a sharp exhale left his lungs, and he could finally relax his stomach muscles so that his pouch poked through the white shirt fabric. Hey, it’s not like it’s big. He just doesn’t have time to do sit-ups every day. </p><p>He rubbed a hand over his face, massaging his jaw which hurt from the charade of near-constant smiling, talking, and fake conman cheer. God, how he hated this sometimes. But needs must, and it makes the dough, so what? He managed to do this for fifteen years, it’s no bother at this point. Some days, however, the onslaught of people desperate for entertainment became too much, and he craved nothing but to barricade himself in the basement and work on more important matters. Like the portal, and the transmission that could allow him to communicate with his spouse clearly for once. If at all. </p><p>Heaving a deep sigh, Greg walked towards the exit, putting his cane that had a magic eight-ball glued on top as a handle into an umbrella upholder by the door. He made sure to lock it as well, should any lingering kids or tourists decide to come back and snoop around. He doesn’t want anyone inside the living quarters, thank you very much. There was a particular incident with Anderson a few years back, nosy son a bitch. He was lucky to have left the Shack with a bruised wrist at the worst. </p><p>Greg heard a slight commotion in the kitchen, but laughter erupted in its wake, and he didn’t bother coming in yet. He has to change from his work clothes into something comfy first before joining the fashion-crazed women. He trotted upstairs, taking two steps at a time. Then he aimed it to the left, past his office and into a room at the end of the corridor: the master bedroom. He lit up a cigarette on his way there, and as soon as he came in he opened a blue and orange stained window so as to avoid the smoke scent seething into his clothes and the furniture inside. </p><p>The bedroom itself was simple. At the back, centered, was a king sized bed, the sheets and duvets neatly smoothed out. Two rectangular pillows were propped up against the headboard, and three smaller pieces lay between, plus a very old, shabby-looking teddy bear. One of its eyes was missing, and the faux fur bore marks of scorching in certain places where it had almost caught on fire decades ago. The corners of Greg’s mouth twitched downwards as he regarded the relic of easier times (well, debatable, but compared to his current position….) and he took a last puff from his cigarette and threw it outside and below, perfectly hitting the container under the kitchen window. </p><p>Built in-wall stood a closet, and Greg slid the doors aside as he surveyed what he had available. A pair of blue shorts, a pair of yellow and green striped pyjama bottoms, and a shitload of tank tops, mostly white, black, grey, or light blue. He opted for the shorts and a grey tank top; the temperatures were higher than kites nowadays. He could withstand the day in a suit since the museum and gift shop had air conditioning, but the rest of the house barely allowed a break from the hot summer climate. He changed and tossed the crumpled suit trousers, shirt, and vest aside to bring it down to the laundry room later. He didn’t disturb the made up bed; he rarely slept in it anyway. He usually kipped on the sofa, in the basement, or he passed out in his chair in the office. The bed was lonely and vast and deserted if it was only Greg who occupied the space. </p><p>When Greg kneeled to put away his shoes (noting mentally to polish them at some point, they looked horrendous) his hand brushed against a dusty shoebox. Time stopped, or slowed down, he wasn’t sure. His pulse sped up, and for a long while he stayed like that, crouching, the sound of blood rushing through his veins and his heart pounding in his ribcage being his sole companions. Greg hesitated, his sweaty palm hovering over the flat surface covered in fuzzy dust particles. At the last second he shook his head and stood up, shutting the closet. His gaze wandered along the length and width of the bare wallpaper. He took most of the pictures down a few years back. Some of them, he kept in the basement and lab. It served as a good motivation and a reminder not to give up and push forward. </p><p>Greg paced back to the door and without sparing the master bedroom a second glance, he left, leaving it undisturbed as he had found it. Mrs Hudson never came in, respecting his privacy. She knew bits and pieces of his and his partner’s past and what happened, but never pushed for details. Greg wouldn’t mind sharing, but at this point in time, the less she knew, the better. He’ll have to come forth with the kids eventually, though… But that’s not exactly an easy feat. There’s a lot of risks, and he still hasn’t figured out what precisely had happened a few months ago regarding…. </p><p>“Greg! Are you coming?” Irene’s voice interrupted his train of thought, and he snapped back to present. He suddenly found himself at the bottom of the stairs. </p><p>Taking a deep breath, Greg put on his mask of indifference and calmness. Running a hand through his greying hair, he swept into the kitchen, observing the tea party his women had organised for themselves. </p><p>“M’ladies,” he tipped his nonexistent hat, trailing to the fridge to grab a soda. The can hissed, and Greg swallowed liquid sugars and chemicals in long thirsty gulps. “So, Hudders -- how are we?”</p><p>Mrs Hudson shot him a half-hearted glare at the nickname. “We’re doing good over here, you uncultured man.”</p><p>“Irene picked out a gorgeous dress for Mrs Hudson,” Kate told him, pointing at said item which lay spread out on the back of a free chair. Greg hummed in approval, licking moisture from his upper lip. </p><p>“Looks good to me. What else is there to do?”</p><p>“Irene went to fetch cucumbers from the garden,” Mrs Hudson said, putting down her teacup. “We’ll have face masks.”</p><p>“And then I’ll see what makeup we can do,” Kate added, nodding at her trusty assortiment of beauty products. Greg picked up a mascara and squinted at it. </p><p>“Why does it say ‘vegan’ in here?”</p><p>“Because it contains such ingredients. I try to choose products that weren’t tested or made immorally. Thankfully more companies consider the vegan option nowadays.”</p><p>“Huh, interesting. Which lipstick would suit me?”</p><p>“Are you asking me seriously or just for fun?”</p><p>“Both, I guess,” Greg shrugged, taking a seat next to Kate. Mrs Hudson smiled at them over the rim of her cup. Then Greg caught a glance of something better. “Is that lip gloss?”
</p><p>“Yep!” Kate slid five of them his way across the table. “They’re unopened. I think it’s written on the bottom what flavour they have.”</p><p>“They’re flavoured?” Greg gasped, immediately looking at the names of the flavours. “Pass me some mirror, quick! I found blackberry lips gloss!” </p><p>Kate gave him her beauty mirror and Greg adjusted it so that he could see where to apply the lip gloss. Irene came back then, carrying three cucumbers and a white blossoming flower of unknown origin. </p><p>“Wow, we have a new fashion guru?” Irene said, walking to the sink to wash the cucumbers. </p><p>“Aha,” Greg replied, full of concentration. Kate found it hilarious. </p><p>“Can I take a picture?”</p><p>“Sure, when I’m done.”</p><p>“I never would’ve pegged you for a guy who likes lip gloss,” Irene grinned as she put the cucumbers down on a cutting board Mrs Hudson retrieved for her and put it on the dining table. </p><p>“You never would’ve pegged me for someone who joined a drag queen competition either and yet here we are.”</p><p>“You what?” the three women said at the same time, equally incredulous. Greg smirked and smacked his lips. Neat. He hasn’t done this since 2004. </p><p>“How come I never heard that story?” Kate poked him in the arm, expecting an explanation. </p><p>“You never asked,” Greg shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “But long story short, it was in Texas, and I would’ve won if it weren’t for this Florida man who put even David Bowie to shame by how much glitter he put on.”</p><p>“This was after you left Florida or before?” Mrs Hudson inquired, helping Irene chop the cucumbers into thin round slices. </p><p>“After. Me and My…. Well, let’s say that another stop on the journey was Texas, and I had a bet going on with this guy, Bobby. Cool dude, by the way, spoke Japanese and called everyone an ‘idjit’ at some point if you pissed him off. He laughed his ass off when he saw me in drag, but let me tell you, I won the bet anyway. Didn’t even have to win the first place, but looking back I think he just wanted a bit of entertainment. Bobby was also the reason why it’s now legal to hunt Bigfoot in Texas.”</p><p>“That’s legal there?”</p><p>“Yeah, though not in Oregon,” Greg confirmed, and Irene pushed the cutting board in the middle of the table for everyone to grab a slice of the cut vegetable. “Thing is, I cosplayed Chewbacca later but Bobby and I took it one step too far and now Bigfoot is…. well, the actual Biggy better not go south for vacation is all I’m saying.”</p><p>Irene and Kate stared at him in utter disbelief, but Mrs Hudson merely blinked and resumed the conventional means of conversation, steering it back to cucumber masks. Greg enjoyed confounding people around him, even though most of them thought he was joking when he recounted the many stories he had up his sleeves. Little did they know…. Hm, he wondered how Bobby was doing these days. The last time they had contact was what, ten years ago? Hopefully he was still alive. Hunter or not, he deserved peace too. And they had had fun together. </p><p>Greg jerked up when a bony finger poked him in the back where his skin was exposed by the tank top. “What the hell, Irene?”</p><p>“Sorry! I just… saw your tattoo and my fish brain had the urge to touch it,” she said by way of explanation, and Greg rubbed at the spot. The… oh, ‘tattoo’. It was really a scar, but she didn’t need to know that. </p><p>“It’s nothing,” he waved her off. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“Where did you get it?”</p><p>“That’s too long of a story. I’ll tell you someday, but not now. Maybe on Halloween, heh. Could make for a good horror story. I think we should focus on Hudders and her upcoming date, no?”</p><p>~</p><p>Tutoring Mrs Hudson on confidence, self-esteem, sugar, spice, and everything nice turned out to be even more fun than Irene had anticipated. They went through the usual steps Irene supervised before amateur fashion shows, and after each mini task she had the upkeeper do, Irene saw Mrs Hudson inevitably succumb to the chill atmosphere she and Kate and Greg created. It took some effort, but Greg’s occasional anecdotes and Irene’s and Kate’s meme culture did a great job of ensuring that the upkeeper stays calm and relaxed after the face masks (even though Greg shamelessly ate about three quarters of the cucumbers). </p><p>Kate did a cute, simple makeup routine for Mrs Hudson. She did the woman’s eyebrows, gave her the most perfect winged eyeliner, though it looked subtle enough to be seen as a mere highlight that brought out Mrs Hudson’s pretty eyes. And just like Greg, she chose the option of lip gloss instead of a lipstick. Kate’s colours were apparently too bold for the upkeeper, but Kate agreed with her. Overall, the touch-ups took less time than what they spent on picking the dresses, the last thing to be done being a blush that Kate gave Mrs Hudson using a feathery brown brush that tickled her nose. </p><p>“I think we’re ready,” Kate said as she inspected Mrs Hudson one last time, smiling at the woman warmly. Kate handed her a mirror. “What do you think, guys?”</p><p>“I think Hudders looks lovely,” Greg cooed, hugging his friend around the shoulders. “The girls did a good job, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Oh….” Mrs Hudson fixed her gaze on her reflection. Irene hugged her from the other side. “It… it really is lovely! Do you think Angelo will like it too?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Irene said, patting her hand softly. “Just you wait, he won’t be able to look away once he sets his eyes on you. Mark my words!”</p><p>Mrs Hudson blushed crimson, and both Kate and Greg giggled. Irene fetched Greg’s phone which lay on the table and handed it to Mrs Hudson. “Let’s call Angelo, hm?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Yep! Better do it quickly before you lose your bravado. Trust me, he’ll say yes.”</p><p>“Oh, well. That’s not the problem, actually,” Mrs Hudson said.</p><p>“But we agreed that you’ll ask Angelo out,” Irene’s brows furrowed, and she leaned her hip on the edge of the dining table. </p><p>“Yes, that’s true. But haven’t I told you? I asked him out the day I took you to the diner.”</p><p>“What? You did?”</p><p>“Yes!” Mrs Hudson smiled sheepishly. Then she blinked, a hand covering her mouth. “Oh, dear. I did forget to tell you! Goodness, I probably chatted with Mrs Turner, that wench, and then it missed me.”</p><p>“Hold on,” Greg intervened, “so you already have a date scheduled with Angelo? Today?”</p><p>“I do. Irene’s words of encouragement stuck to me, and I figured that I have nothing to lose, do I? Angelo and I could stay friends in case he refused….”</p><p>“But he didn’t,” Kate finished, a wide grin spreading on her face showing her teeth. “And we got you ready for your first date with him! Aaaah! This is so exciting!”</p><p>“It is! I asked Angelo later that day, you know. Poor guy phoned me whether I had any vegetables spare for ratatouille, which I did. And when he came by to collect them, I popped the question. He said yes, and he’ll collect me here at the Shack in….”</p><p>Mrs Hudson’s phone went off, and a picture of smiling Angelo appeared on the previously black mirror screen. She picked it up, still mildly blushing, and replied positively to whatever Angelo was talking about. Then she wished him a goodbye and hung up. </p><p>“So?”</p><p>“Angelo will be here in ten minutes,” Mrs Hudson proclaimed, standing up. Irene was still flabbergasted by the news, but not mad in the least. </p><p>“But why were you so nervous the whole time?” she asked, picking out a stray hair that caught on the dress. “If your date has been arranged, there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”</p><p>“Not always,” Greg said as he started cleaning up the mess on the table. Kate started packing her own equipment. “You’re gonna be flimsy and twitchy at first, anyway. I’ve been told it’s the endorphins or some shit like that. Don’t remember, don’t care. Eh, first dates and such are usually full of expectations, you don’t want to mess up.”</p><p>“I’m not negating that, but I thought that maybe as you get older, you start caring less.”</p><p>“Oh, we do,” Mrs Hudson winked at her. “But you do stay a teenager in your heart when it comes to love, deep down. Most of the time, at least. I’m sorry I forgot to let you know, but you’ve done a wonderful job making me feel lighter and younger, Irene. Thank you, and you, Kate. I haven’t looked this gorgeous since the eighties.”</p><p>“And you won’t thank me?” Greg quipped from over where he stood at the sink. </p><p>Mrs Hudson batted her eyelashes at him. “Of course, Greg! Thank you for your silly anecdotes. I’ll make sure to warn Bigfoot not to wander off to Texas when I meet him, shall I?”</p><p>“You know what’s best, Hudders.”</p><p>“Lord knows I do. And next time, we’re doing a makeover of Greg, girls.”</p><p>“What on Earth for?!”</p><p>“I can’t stand your hair. Greying temples are alright, but with that shade of brown? Please, just submit to the silver fox fate, Greg. Do us all a favour and dye your hair before I have to.”</p><p>Greg watched his friend and employee, stunned by her brutal honesty and her opinion of his hairstyle. Irene stifled a giggle, but Kate failed and she almost rolled on the floor from how hard she laughed. Mrs Hudson came closer to Greg and patted him on the cheek. </p><p>“Why do you women have the need to make me feel queasy about my hair? I’m not even forty yet!”</p><p>“Don’t take it personally,” Irene told him cheekily, smiling innocently in the direction of his glare. “We just know what’s best for you. And grey hair is the way of enlightenment, Greg.”</p><p>“<em>‘We just know what’s best for you!’</em>” Greg parotted without a bite in his tone. He sighed, resigned to their ideas about his looks. He crossed his arms and regarded them with a glare that clearly communicated he’s done reisisting. “You know what? Fine. Whatever. If I don’t go grey by Halloween, have at thee. Or me, actually. Deal?”</p><p>“Deal!” Irene shook his hand for the dramatic, sealing the agreement firmly. She already had an outfit in mind that would go well with grey-silver hair…. </p><p>“Well, I think I’ll go wait outside for Angelo. He should be here any minute now,” Mrs Hudson said, stuffing her phone in her purse. She hugged Kate and Irene, and then Greg. “Thank you all for your help. And I am truly sorry for the confusion, but goodness knows that Mrs Turner is a wicked witch who makes me forget the important things.”</p><p>“Oh, shush, Hudders,” Greg rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “If anything, it’s hilarious. I’m glad you found yourself a date. Angelo is a nice guy. Enjoy your date, alright?”</p><p>“I will,” she winked at them from the doorway. Then she fixed Greg a stern glare. “And don’t you dare smoke another cigarette today, Greg! The stench in the house is horrible during such scorching days, honestly.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as Mrs Hudson has her date, it means that we're getting closer to the johnlock date, too! Soon. :)<br/>I'll see you on the 25th!<br/>I hope you're all doing good, guys &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 20.1. 2021<br/>Word count: 4706<br/>Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. A Boxed Match V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which it almost happens</p>
<p>episode 6, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi peeps! Final chapter of ep6 is here o:)<br/>ALSO finally I get to show off Hamilton some more! <br/>Thank you all for reading and enjoy this mini finale &lt;3 <br/>Special thanks to, uh, Lin Manuel Miranda for The Room Where It Happens, cuz I vibe to it nowadays; and also Bee and Dee</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock extricated himself from the house as unassumingly as possible. He tossed his duffel bag over his right shoulder and power walked to the bus stop at the end of their lane. He only ever told Irene he was going to town, though he hadn’t disclosed anything else. She, Greg, and Kate were helping Mrs Hudson, Irene embarking on her journey as a life coach and matchmaker. John in turn had to stay in the gift shop, selling overpriced merch to innocent tourists. Sherlock was tempted, to say the least, to stay and offer his deductions for their shared entertainment, but he had an appointment with Anthea to go through. Additionally, he was a piece of chicken shit, as Irene would correctly put it, and he still avoided John should he deliver the news of breaking their connection (and yes, he did make it sound dramatic, but he listened to musicals all night, can you blame him?).</p>
<p>Boarding the bus, Sherlock padded to the very end of the vehicle, plugging his earphones in and he tapped on the Hamilton soundtrack he had purchased over a year ago. As Aaron Burr sang about why he has got to be in <em>The Room Where It Happens</em>, Sherlock slumped back in his grimy seat, letting his eyes wander over the scenery of the familiar pine trees. </p>
<p>The weather grew warmer, the air heavier, and there were no signs of rain; not soon, at least. Sherlock let his thoughts flow and go, his small Mind Palace open for a short while, roaming. They started sorting themselves out on their own, the chorus falling quiet as Burr began to regain his voice and composure. Sherlock’s eyes fell shut. </p>
<p>
  <em>I</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Wanna be in</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The room where it happens</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The room where it happens</em>
</p>
<p>He was at the Mystery Shack, standing in the front yard, close to the pit where they had burned Nicolas Cage days prior, now cold and full of ashes. His legs automatically led him to the gift shop. He half-expected John to be waiting there, but it was empty and devoid of any soul. </p>
<p>
  <em>I</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Wanna be in</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The room where it happens</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The room where it happens</em>
</p>
<p>Sherlock looked around. Everything was in its usual place. The half-arsed figurines for sale he had to help make so that Lestrade could profit, the magazine stand (disorganized and useless) right besides the cash register, the t-shirts hung up on the wall next to the door… Why was he here?</p>
<p>
  <em>I
Wanna be
In the room where it happens
I
I wanna be in the room</em>
</p>
<p>He walked over to the vending machine. It was always out of order, taking up precious space in the cramped shop. Why didn’t Lestrade tell Mrs Hudson to repair it? She was more than skilled to do it. His gaze scanned the food offered on display -- mostly it contained rip-off brands bearing atrocious names like <em>Loca-Cola </em>or <em>Snackers</em>. </p>
<p>The song progressed, growing more agitated along with Burr and his determination. Sherlock took a step back, fingers thoughtfully touching his chin. Of all the memories from his Mind Palace, why appear here?</p>
<p>
  <em>The art of the compromise
Hold your nose and close your eyes</em>
</p>
<p>Light buzzing echoed under his feet, goods on display shaking, trepidation and jitters releasing clunking sounds of distress. Sherlock did a one-eighty to inspect the disturbance. Few objects began lifting from their shelves, then falling down again, some bouncing off and over the edge and dropping to the floor, breaking, the pieces flying astray and under the shelves. </p>
<p>
  <em>We want our leaders to save the day
But we don't get a say in what they trade away</em>
</p>
<p>The sky outside changed from a bright yellow noon sun to an orange dusk, sun rays shifting their angle to match the time of day. The stained glass of the windows coloured the beams further and Sherlock watched them penetrate the stilled air inside with primary colours of the rainbow. All six were aligned in such a way they ‘cut’ across the vending machine. </p>
<p>
  <em>We dream of a brand new start
But we dream in the dark for the most part</em>
</p>
<p>Sherlock’s vision blurred, all the colour except for the sunbeams draining from his surroundings, or even the whole world. Faint and distant, unintelligible whispers tickled over his pale skin, goosebumps breaking out on his arms. Items floated and fell once more, this time with greater distance and interval both. </p>
<p>
  <em>Dark as a tomb where it happens
I've got to be in
The room (where it happens)</em>
</p>
<p>The whispers now appeared to be closer, making Sherlock jump and look around, but there was no one except him in the gift shop, save for the malicious presence safely hidden from him on some invisible spectrum. This time, he rose and levitated along the merch and shop items, gravity and perhaps even the world turning and falling upside down. </p>
<p>L̸s̷,̷ ̵H̴s̵v̸i̸o̸l̵x̸p̷ ̶S̸l̷o̶n̴v̸h̸ ̸-̵ ̷R̶ ̴ld̴v̸ ̸b̷l̶f̵ ̴z̴ ̴e̸r̶h̷r̵g̵ ̶z̵u̸g̵v̷i̶ ̸z̸o̵o̷.̵ ̶</p>
<p>
  <em>Click boom</em>
</p>
<p>Sherlock jolted awake, his brain catching up to the fact that his bus had arrived at the Mall. The doors started closing, and he found himself bolting for the sliver of open space as he hastily slithered out onto the pavement. He hadn’t even realised he had fallen asleep. What kind of dream even was that? </p>
<p>Details he had seen mere seconds before now dissipated, leaving him clueless and angry at his own self for letting it slip from his consciousness. Sherlock ran a hand through his semi-greasy curls, a ghost of pressure present at his left temple as he racked his mind about the clue his Mind Palace possibly tried to show him. </p>
<p>Why the gift shop, of all places? The rudimentary room was below his area of interest when he wasn’t tortured by Lestrade having to spend his precious time there. And what about gravity? The colours? Oh! Maybe it was his subconscious telling him to focus on the Colour Wheel? He’ll make that his priority once he returns to the Shack. </p>
<p>He jogged the short distance to the Mall, not minding the cars or cyclists. He earned a lot of shouts and ignored each and every one in turn. Inside, he shivered when air conditioning reached him, waking his body up by the sudden assault of coldness. </p>
<p>Sherlock passed by the stationary bicycles and treadmills, avoiding anything that moved as he hurried towards Anthea’s room. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes to three. He hesitated at the sliding doors, not knowing whether to invite himself in or wait. Voices coming from the inside solved the dilemma for him. Anthea’s client approached the doors, thanking her for the lesson, and then Sherlock found himself face-to-face with Wilkes. Eugh.</p>
<p>Neither of them spoke at first. Wilkes frowned, bushy eyebrows hitched, and then familiar suspicion took over. </p>
<p>“What do you want here?” he asked, perplexed as per usual. Sherlock rolled his eyes, stepping aside to allow the idiot to pass and get lost. </p>
<p>“Ah, Sherlock!” Anthea appeared besides Wilkes. “You’re on time. I like that.”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me you’re boxing?” Wilkes eyed Sherlock in unmasked shock. A wicked smile spread across his face.</p>
<p>“He’s having his free try-out session,” Anthea supplied, saving Sherlock oxygen. As if he would spare it on the idiot in the first place. “We don’t exclude here, Seb.”</p>
<p>“Of course, A. I’ve got to go now, but hopefully I’ll see you soon. Both.”</p>
<p>Sherlock ignored the shit-eating, self-satisfied grin Wilkes gave him, following Anthea inside. She motioned to a room on the right with a flick of her thumb, saying, “You can change there. There are benches on either side of the room, plenty of space for your things. What we’ll do is get a little bit of warm-up, then show you the basics. Box, like martial arts, has muscle memory as the key to success. The more you repeat the movements, the better you become at it. Plus, you get stronger, but naturally that’s not all there is to it. Does that sound fine?”</p>
<p>“Yep,” Sherlock said, popping the consonant. Anthea nodded and went to open the window to let the stale air freshen up. Sherlock changed into his sweatpants and t-shirt, choosing to go barefoot. He wouldn’t let Wilkes rain on his parade -- he had eagerly anticipated the session, and he won’t let his mood get ruined by some ineffable twat in rumpled shorts. Taking a deep breath, he returned to where Anthea was. Let’s see what he remembers from his London days. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>John paid the cashier what his shopping was worth, noting the time on the digital screen that showed his total sum. 16:03. Less than an hour ago he was released from the prison of the Shack’s gift shop by Greg who came to switch him. His grunkle then proceeded to send him on this quest to town to buy him shampoo and razors, of which he ran out of. Because that man couldn’t simply add it to the shopping list the day before, <em>no</em>. Eh, at least he also ordered dinner from Angelo’s which John will pick up on his way back. </p>
<p>He had initially planned to invite Sherlock along, but Irene informed him that her brother had left for the town earlier already. Where, she had no idea. </p>
<p>“Probably went to get mould samples from the bins or something,” she had said distastefully. Right after, however, she had returned her full attention to Kate and their game of Uno.</p>
<p>John texted Sherlock whether he wanted a ride home, but he replied that he’d take the bus. Something in John’s chest sank when he saw the text, but alas. He won’t push. It would be a good opportunity to talk to Sherlock about their date, but that can wait. Although, a nagging thought nibbled at the back of his head: what if Sherlock changed his mind? He did become a bit distant in the past two days. Of course John noticed. But the question was: did Sherlock purposefully avoid John because he wanted an out, or was it stress? </p>
<p>Well. John will ambush Sherlock sooner or later. Preferably sooner. Twenty-fifth drew nearer, and he needed to know Sherlock’s opinions. If it’s bullshit, they’ll find something else, but John is much too aware that he doesn’t want to miss this opportunity at a relationship with Sherlock -- if the gorgeous boy is amenable, of course. Maybe the gummy worms he’d bought for Sherlock will help calm both their nerves -- he did have a sweet tooth.</p>
<p>He’ll know the answer eventually. </p>
<p>But as it turned out, he didn’t have to go far to stumble upon Sherlock. The moment he exited the shop, the uninviting sounds of threats and taunts reached his ears, unpleasant as they were. The Mall wasn’t terribly busy, and the row was happening at a strategic place away from the eyes of visitors, save for the audio broadcast. </p>
<p>John padded closer to the origins of the fight, giving in to his protective instincts. A giant tropical plant in an even bigger pot provided him the most optimal, and also ironically comical, of camouflages. He bent his head to peek at what was going on, and decided to call the security in a moment. To his horror, he saw Sherlock and Sebastian Wilkes, the former being pressed against the wall as the latter held him pinned, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding him by the wrist. </p>
<p>Shocked, John sprung from behind the plant, fuming. “What the fuck, Sebastian?” he growled, fists clenching at his sides. He may have actually seen red. Wilkes let go of Sherlock immediately, the relieved quiet gasp for breath not escaping John’s attention. “Care to explain why I found you two staring each other down?”</p>
<p>“He started it,” Sherlock accused, sneering back at Wilkes as the other boy said the same thing. </p>
<p>“Not my fault he’s such an insufferable dickhead,” Wilkes said, crossing his arms defiantly, not meeting John’s gaze. </p>
<p>“Watch your tone,” John said sharply as he stepped between the two of them. “Why are the two of you at each other’s throats ever since you met?”</p>
<p>“John, it’s no matter,” Sherlock coughed, his tone indicating that he was bored, but there was a hint of an embarrassed ‘<em>Just drop it, please</em>’ that begged to be recognised. Sure, after he had answers. </p>
<p>“No matter?” Wilkes repeated, tone incredulous. He stepped closer but stopped when John put his hands on his hips in a silent warning, beckoning him to try. “You’re the one talking weird and offending people! All these ‘deductions’ or whatever you called it. Pretty dumb tricks, if you ask me. You watch too many criminal shows to differentiate what’s real and what’s not. Sure, you solved the Freddie problem the other day, but if you keep running your mouth like a childish freak, insulting people, I won’t be the only one desiring to beat you up.”</p>
<p>“Right, that’s enough, Wilkes,” John cut in, dropping the bag with Greg’s things on the cold, polished tiled floor. He took an assertory step forward, poking Wilkes in the chest with his forefinger as he spoke. “Call him a freak or childish one more time and we’ll see who will beat up whom. I’m serious. You think you attending a boxing club makes you intimidating? Think twice and fuck off while you’re at it.”</p>
<p>Only now had he noticed that he backed Wilkes up the wall, finger poised threateningly under his chin. John may have been shorter than both of the boys, but he could break their noses no problem. Or worse. </p>
<p>“Calm down, John,” Wilkes said, huffing out a fake laugh. He was getting squirmy and uncomfortable. Good. Prick deserved as much. “But really, don’t you see how weird he is? Standoffish posh guy from Britain, nothing else --”</p>
<p>John grabbed him by the wrist, spinning him around and slamming him full force into the wall. “Oh, look. Just when I thought I asked for your opinion you come in and absolutely prove that I, in fact, very much <em>did not</em>.” He let go of him, but the moment Wilkes was free he made to grab at John’s shirt. His reflexes were faster, however, and he slammed the insufferable prick into the wall again. “I <em>really </em>didn’t ask. Just to clarify. And don’t try to fight me, you’ll lose. Now please, fuck off before I do something that will land you in the ER.”</p>
<p>John released his grip and took a steady step back, watching as Wilkes muttered a response. Rolling his eyes, he pointed at the exit and watched as Sebastian scurried out. He then turned to Sherlock, who fixed him with a look full of confusion, awe, amusement, and… anger? </p>
<p>“I…. Uh… Sorry?” he offered, at which Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Shit. Okay, maybe he overreacted, but validly. <em>No one</em> was going to call Sherlock names. He had brushed Wilkes and his stupid butthurt ass off the first time these two clashed, but not anymore. Irene had mentioned that Sherlock used to have a rough time back in London, especially in middle school and highschool, but how bad was the extent and impact it had on Sherlock? John probably rightfully suspected that Sherlock and his peers ventured beyond what could be called ‘friendly teasing’. </p>
<p>Sherlock shrugged wordlessly and picked up the bag John had dropped. Not meeting John’s eyes he said, “Lestrade sent you to do his bidding, I see.” Ah. Avoiding the problem, then. Obviously it was a touchy topic, but John couldn’t bear Sherlock stocking these thoughts away and dwelling on them. Not when he was a genius and brilliant at what he did -- sure, tactless on occasion, but he was mostly brutally honest in his approach to problem solving and spoke before thinking (or after too much of it). </p>
<p>Thankfully, John may have an antidote for the plaguing thoughts. </p>
<p>“He did, but he also paid for takeaway at Angelo’s,” John said. This wasn’t over. He took the bag from Sherlock and prodded him to the exit. “Let’s go. Care to tell me what got Wilkes so riled up?”</p>
<p>Sherlock fell into a stroll next to him, grunting a non committal response. John noticed the duffel bag he carried over his shoulder, and he was sweaty and dishevelled. As far as John assessed him, he had no injuries. “Sherlock?”</p>
<p>“Yes, John?” Sherlock said impatiently, but a faint pink crept up his cheeks, no longer from physical extortion of any sorts. They skipped the last few steps on the crosswalk not to slow down the traffic too much. </p>
<p>“What were you doing at the Mall? I thought you hated it?”</p>
<p>“Brilliant deduction, John. Last time I checked, though, my personal affairs were none of your concern.”</p>
<p>John pressed the unlock button on his keypad and the car mechanism audibly switched. Wow. That was new -- Sherlock being so defensive. They got inside, buckling up. The radio stayed off. </p>
<p>“What’s gotten into you?” John said, looking to the side at his friend. He only got a glimpse of his reflection in the window (which badly needed a wash, remind Greg -- oh, who’s he kidding, he’ll have to do it). Sherlock pouted, teeth chewing at the inside of his bottom lip. “Is it because I broke up your fight? Seriously, I knew you and Wilkes aren’t exactly on the best of terms, but is that what you want? To fight with someone who isn’t even worth it? Honestly, Sherlock. I thought you knew better than to get into brawls with <em>idiots</em>, as you’d put it.”</p>
<p>“Well, you thought wrong. What’s it to you? You’re not my minder. I can deal with my problems myself.”</p>
<p>John snorted against his better judgement, leading the car out on the road. Angelo’s was five minutes on the west side of town from the mall. They’ll have to wait for the full order to go through, however -- Angelo warned Greg it was getting busier by the hour, <em>plus</em> he had the day off to have a date with Mrs Hudson. As such, his other three employees had to step in, though their proficiency skills weren’t as sharp as Angelo’s, but they were as tasty, at least. John had no trouble waiting, at least he’ll figure out what the fuck is up with Sherlock. </p>
<p>“It certainly looked far from that,” John said, adjusting the rear-view mirror to his liking. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. The car turned left. “Look, I am sorry if I offended you, but I can’t stand by when someone is about to hurt you.”</p>
<p>“Because poor little Sherlock is too weak to take care of his own mess? The ‘freak’ who is incapable of being normal?” Sherlock said mockingly, crossing his arms defensively on his chest. John spared him a glance to see him worry his lip again. Then he fired off. “But of course you are the knight in shining armour with your caretaker tendencies. These, you obviously obtained from your childhood. But how exactly? You’ve told us you have been spending your summer holidays with Greg, a distant family member, since you were in kindergarten. Wouldn’t that be troublesome, for a child? And for him? The fares and travelling by airplane or any other form of transport from Canada to Oregon? </p>
<p>“Then there is your limited contact with your immediate family. Up to this point you haven’t contacted them or talked about them openly. Lestrade asked you once when he thought Irene and I were out of earshot and you shut him down. You’re a university student on a scholarship and you work two part-time jobs during semesters. Clearly, independence means a lot to you. </p>
<p>“You keep your mother’s phone number in your wallet, but the paper is worn out and soft from all the times you held it and stuffed it back, changing your mind. You also have a sister Harry whom you haven’t seen in years. You’re in no contact with any of them. Why? Your lack of care in this regard presently hints that you’ve shown an excessive amount of it when you were younger. </p>
<p>“Given that your parents are on bad terms, perhaps divorced, this potentially led to a downward spiral for your mother, mentally speaking. Or, it was induced by your father. Statistically speaking, alcoholism is among the biggest factors playing the devil in such familial situations. Granted, it’s nothing to be ashamed of because none of it is your fault, but the affected parties find a way to derail blame on themselves, which would also be you -- hence med school and your protectiveness. It’s pretty telling when you put yourself on the line when there’s danger John, really. But that doesn’t mean it’s always necessary or wanted. I’m no child and you’re not my babysitter to defuse my problems I so apparently cause by my ‘dumb’ and ‘unreal’ deductions.<em> Little tricks</em>.”</p>
<p>Throughout listening to Sherlock’s deductive streak that he unleashed upon John, he parked the car on the curb in front of Angelo’s diner. Sherlock had worked himself up and his back was straight as a rod, nostrils flared, but his eyes were tired and haunted. This must’ve boiled inside him for a while now. John should’ve noticed it sooner. </p>
<p>“I was curious when you’d deduce me like that,” John said, amused that it had come to this at last. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he finally looked at John as though he fell from Mars. </p>
<p>“You’re…. not angry?” Sherlock was dumbfounded, shocked even. John drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, now locked in place as he shifted the handbrake. </p>
<p>“No. It’s strange to be on the receiving end of your deductions, that much is true, but it’s still brilliant. Besides… I dunno. It’s unlikely I’d ever speak of it myself, as you pointed out. I’m not used to speaking about it. But you, seeing at least the skeleton in the closet, knowing it? Yeah, that makes it a shit ton easier. Sure, you have the approximate facts and you’re pretty damn accurate, but there’s more to it.”</p>
<p>“I’m aware. There’s always <em>something </em>I miss. No one is bulletproof.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Point is, it’s comforting that you already know some of it. Makes it easier for me, not having to dig into my past.” John unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped outside, Sherlock mirroring him. “Let’s go and see whether they have our order ready, okay?”</p>
<p>Sherlock mutely nodded, and the two walked up to the entrance. “I still don’t understand, John.”</p>
<p>“Understand what?” John caught Sherlock by the arm, leading him to the bar. Vitto, Angelo’s second cook in command, checked up on the new customers, his beaming smile inviting them in.</p>
<p>“Ah, boys! Your food will be ready in ten minutes! Tiramisu is still in the fridge, sorry,” the man said, waving at them. “Anything I can get you on the house in the meantime?”</p>
<p>“Want anything, Sherlock?” John asked, taking out his wallet. No matter how infatuated Angelo was with Mrs Hudson and insisted Greg or his Mystery Shack occupants didn’t owe him anything for the food, he would pay. Sherlock shook his head but John caught him sneaking a look at the coffee machine. He rolled his eyes, passing Vitto a five dollar bill. “One black coffee, black, four heaving teaspoons of sugar. Thanks.”</p>
<p>Vitto winked at them, disappearing in the kitchen as John led Sherlock to a table by the window. The diner wasn’t packed per se, but it wasn’t empty either. People invited their friends out for a meal to catch up, date, gossip -- typical Reichenbach Falls stuff. </p>
<p>“How do you know how I take my coffee?” Sherlock asked, sitting down across John who gave him a knowing smile. </p>
<p>“Did you think I’d miss the monstrous amount of sugar you dump in your coffee at every breakfast? Honestly, how you have any teeth left is beyond me.” Sherlock returned his smile, shyly, but the mood lightened at last. “You said you didn’t understand -- but what exactly?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s shoulders sagged, fingers toying with the extinguished candle in the middle of their table. “Why are you friends with me? I’ve always been the odd one out, and the few ‘friends’ I thought I had always gave up on me when they realised I wouldn’t simply change my personality to something they considered ‘normal’.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’d say they were fucking idiots, then,” John supplied, putting his elbow on the table. Vitto brought Sherlock his steaming hot coffee, lighting up the small candle in the meantime, saying it makes for a better atmosphere. John refused to take the five dollars back, stubbornly shoving it back in Vitto’s direction, who was just as adamant not to take it. “Then use it to pay for another customer’s food, okay? Take it off someone else’s bill.”</p>
<p>Reluctantly, Vitto obeyed and took the money. </p>
<p>“Your generosity is astounding,” Sherlock said, sipping his coffee. His content hum meant it was exactly to his liking. He looked everywhere but at John. “But I meant what I said, John. I’m not easy to deal with. You may not see it now, and you may not even by the end of summer, but eventually you will.”</p>
<p>“I highly doubt that,” John said, lips pressed into a thin line. Sherlock looked skeptical. John shifted closer in his chair. “No, don’t give me that. Listen, we’ve been through quite a lot in the two and a half weeks we’ve known each other which, by the way, feels like two years. Pixies, ghosts, skeletons, Nicolas Cage, ghoul revival of Freddie Mercury -- not once have I doubted you or thought that you’re odd. How could I, considering that we’re in a town where everything is a mystery and strange by default?”</p>
<p>“But that’s here,” Sherlock argued. “You wouldn’t like me if you were to meet me in university.”</p>
<p>“Something tells me that’s bullshit. Sherlock, I’m serious every time I say you’re a genius or that you’re brilliant. Most people that have met you think so. You should’ve seen the texts from Mike and Eddie and Billy -- who basically worships the ground your British ass walks on. Fuck Wilkes and Anderson and whoever tries to undermine you. Do you know why that is? It’s because they can’t face the truth. Yeah, you deduced me as well when you got angry, but as uncomfortable as it is, the sheer fact that I don’t have to speak about it makes it easier to live with it. You’re not a freak, nor are you odd. I mean it.”</p>
<p>“Anger doesn’t give me the pass to be rude to you,” Sherlock muttered, ashamed of himself. He regretted his earlier outburst. “Or anyone else for that matter. I don’t mind people calling me names, it’s not new to me.”</p>
<p>John smelled even more bullshit. He raised an eyebrow, annoyed at all the anonymous faces he would probably never meet who dared call Sherlock a freak, or worse. Kids could be cruel and excluded anyone that was different from them, but if adults resorted to such childish games then that spoke volumes about their maturity. Sherlock <em>was </em>affected by it. His outburst in the car proved that. </p>
<p>“Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but it is new to me and I hate it,” John said, watching Sherlock put his mug down and swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “And I’ll probably punch anyone who calls you something derogatory in the future.”</p>
<p>Sherlock snorted at that. “I suppose social cues dictate I should thank you, so I do: thank you, John.”</p>
<p>“Idiot. You’re welcome,” John grinned, poking Sherlock’s knee with his own. Sherlock gazed longingly into the candle’s flame, his profile sharp and soft simultaneously. John’s hand twitched, the need to smooth a curl out of his eyes and caress his cheek becoming stronger to show that really, despite what the few loud, jealous imbeciles might say about Sherlock’s ability to observe, John meant every word he said. Distant clutter of dishes Angelo’s waitress collected from nearby tables filled their silence. </p>
<p>“Look, Sherlock…” </p>
<p>“John, I…” Their eyes met, both boys breaking out into giggles at the timing. John motioned for Sherlock to go first. “Very well. I, uhm. I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you yesterday. And before that. You must know that prior to arriving here, I… never did relationships. I don’t know what’s expected of me, and unlike chemistry experiments and lab reports, I have no clue what the protocol for dating is. Moreover, I insulted you by my deductions in the car -- how could I not? Besides, you’ve seen how the confrontation at the mall went like. I couldn’t even fight Wilkes off, and he’s a prat. You must think I’m weak. What I’m trying to say is -- as much as I value your… belief in me, I’ll understand if you’d like to call the date off.”</p>
<p>John blinked. Then he blinked again. And again. He sucked in a breath at the same time as Sherlock winced, staring in his coffee. “Sherlock,” he said, “for being a genius, you can seriously be pretty fucking dumb.”</p>
<p>An owlish look was all Sherlock offered as an answer, stunned by John’s proclamation. </p>
<p>“I’ve spent five minutes serenating about how amazing you are and yet you can’t get it through that thick skull of yours that I like you? Like, genuinely fancy you? Because I do, you dumbass. And by no merit do I think you’re weak. I saw you deck pixies using a fucking leather-bound journal, fight off cursed Disney Princess dolls and decapitate them, and kick out a door at a theatre just like <em>that</em>. Never in the time I’ve known you have I thought you’re weak. I meant what I said. I want to go on a date with you. If <em>you </em>want to, of course. I won’t pressure you, but I thought that your having agreed to it in the theatre after you so brilliantly solved Freddie’s case was more or less enough of a confirmation. I don’t mind you deducing me. I’d’ve probably asked you to do it during the date.”</p>
<p>“You’re one of a kind, John Watson,” Sherlock said, the blush creeping up his neck to stain his cheeks again. “Do you… I mean, really? No one ever put effort into getting to know me. Everyone else either brushed me off after talking to me, or ignored me based on my reputation which, in chemistry laboratories, always precedes me.” </p>
<p>John gave in to the temptation and impatience to show Sherlock just how immeasurably he meant this connection of theirs and grabbed his hand. Sherlock let him, eyes wide as saucers and pointedly fixated on where John’s thumb brushed his knuckles. He’d have kissed him to emphasise it point blank, but… he can be more romantic than that.</p>
<p>“Sherlock, try to listen to the auditory input you’re receiving, okay?” John told him, casting him a gentle smile. “I’m not everyone else. I adore the way you think, the way you solve the mysteries. You’re unique and honest, and as I keep so hatefully repeating, amazing. To be honest, I thought <em>you</em> wanted to cancel the date, given how you avoided talking to me, ha.”</p>
<p>John watched Sherlock flush harder, his head ducking to try and cover it. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed quietly. “I didn’t mean to unsettle you. <em>I</em> kept overthinking that you were about to change your mind.”</p>
<p>“Unlikely.”</p>
<p>“I’m aware of that now. I do want the date. I like you, John. I truly do. I don’t want to mess this up. I’m just….”</p>
<p>“Scared?” John suggested, and Sherlock nodded tersely. “Yeah, it’s a bit… intense. To sort of, I dunno, put yourself out there. I understand it could be overwhelming. Truth be told, my head still spins when I remember that you said yes.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. He finally looked up at John, the crinkles around his eyes hinting at his genuine smile that tugged at his lips. “How could I not? You’re quite irresistible in your pursuits.” </p>
<p>It was now John’s turn to blush. “Well, I’m glad. And I don’t want you to overthink it anymore, alright? We’re going on a date, because I like you. Tremendously. And we’re going to have fun, okay? Actually, all those times when you rushed off -- I wanted to talk about the date itself and the idea I got. Well, borrowed from Kate, really, but whatever.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Oh, God. Stupid, <em>stupid</em>. So when you asked you wanted to talk….”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“And I….”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ.”</p>
<p>“Not really,” John chuckled, squeezing Sherlock’s hand firmer. “It’s fine. It’s all fine, Sherlock. How about we steer from the bad and focus on the good? I’d really like to tell you about the date idea.”</p>
<p>Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded. “Go ahead.”</p>
<p>“Okay, so. Kate convinced Greg to have a party at the Shack on the twenty-fifth. We’d have to help out, naturally, because that’s what Kate bargained for in the process as she bartered for the party. But after we’re done setting things up, we’re free to enjoy it and have fun. I was thinking our first date could be then, if you’re okay with that. We can observe and deduce people, make fun of them, dance, or just leave. It’s not obligatory to stay. We can stay for a little bit and then go out for a walk if the space gets too crowded. I know for sure I wouldn’t like to stay the whole time. But that’s just an idea and if you have something else in mind, I’m open to suggestions. I just thought that since I asked you out, I should be the one to suggest what to do, but of course you have a say in it.”</p>
<p>Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock contemplated the new information. “Hm. It doesn’t sound half bad. Why not? We can wing the rest, as you suggested.”</p>
<p>“Perfect.” A grin broke out on John’s face. “Should I bring you flowers?”</p>
<p>Sherlock smirked. “Bring me a skull.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>next up: johnlock date! I will tell you a fun fact: the whole of episode 7 resolves purely around our two lovely idjits ;) more of that on the 30th!<br/>*finally*<br/>God I waited for that episode since AUGUST<br/>Also, the cursed text has a hidden coded message in it :)) <a href="http://themysteryofgravityfalls.com/">here is a hint of what to do with it ;)</a> can you guess who whispered?</p>
<p>Updated: 25.1. 2020<br/>Word count: 5679<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Minor Reflections I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are preparations</p><p>episode 7, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WHEEEEEE date night is here!<br/>FINALLY<br/>no point in talking, let's just see the pining in action translate into more<br/>thanks for reading peeps, enjoy!<br/>specials thanks to bee, dee, and NileBlue and his chaotic energy</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, squinting at the ceiling, lost in thought. Hm, yes, the fairy lights hung a little too low. And they kept lowering themselves, the lights becoming brighter, burning into his vision; the cable snapped off from where it hung on a nail and the hot strip of tiny light bulbs fell horizontally across his face. </p><p>He jerked it away, seething as he rubbed the sore spots by the pads of his fingers. “I told you to anchor it properly on the other end!” he shouted to Kate who tied her end of the cable high above the floor. </p><p>“Roger that, mate!” Kate shouted back, eeking as the ladder shivered under her weight. Sherlock was on his feet sooner than he registered, instinct giving way as he slid on his knees to where Kate was standing, securing the ladder in place. “Oof! That was close. Thanks, Sherlock!”</p><p>“Do be careful next time,” he said, standing up only to see that the fabric of his jeans burnt through and he had holes on both knees. Excellent, he may as well gift them to Irene for her fashion outlets to sew another piece from it. He faced the rest of the wide room, observing the progress they’ve made throughout the day. </p><p>The party was to take place in a cleaned out storage room next to the museum. Kate bossed them around since early morning, eager to scam and ruin locals harder than Lestrade or the economic crisis in 2008. He and John brought in a very old, dusty table which Mrs Hudson washed and threw a white sheet over to cover its shortcomings. Irene and Kate decorated the windows in flashy and glittery strings of paper (cheapest brand Lestrade had found in the store on Kate’s command), and Sherlock and John cleared the room of anything that wouldn’t suit the purpose of the party. </p><p>Truth be told, Sherlock couldn’t care less about it, or the people who seeked late-night entertainment in an Oregon town on a humid Saturday in July. What he <em>did </em>care about was his date with a particular John Watson. </p><p>The days leading up to it were…. normal. Sherlock, John, and Irene dug deeper into the Colour Wheel, although it led nowhere as of now. Nothing feasible came out of it yet, much to Sherlock’s dismay, but they did get to prank Lestrade by making him think that every store in town ran out of cigarettes. </p><p>But right now as the round clock on the wall ticked and tocked, time passing and progressing, the day fading into twilight and night, Sherlock found himself growing nervous. He has never been on a ‘proper’ date before. And as such, he had no reference to turn to. What if it turned out to be a failure and John will hate him after? Sherlock had no idea what the social cues were on first dates. Would there be a kiss? A peck on the cheek? Hand holding? God, how did ordinary people do this on a regular basis? His insecurities have somewhat abated since John quite vehemently declared his adoration for Sherlock, but nagging thoughts pertained. </p><p>Irene’s violent giggles tore him from the confines of his insecure mind. His neck snapped to where she was running to, John in tow. Both of them were holding confetti cannons, aiming at each other. Irene jumped on a couch older than Mrs Hudson, springs creaking under her weight.</p><p>“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Irene threatened, bending her knees. John kneeled, closing one eye as if assessing where his shot would end (everywhere, that’s the point of confetti).</p><p>“I’ll take the chance,” John said gruffly. He clicked his tongue as if cocking a shotgun, entwining the string around his finger. “Any last words?”</p><p>“My name is Jeff!”</p><p>They fired, squares of useless, wasted paper and plastic littering the air and ground; soldiers fell to the floor, muscles and bones no longer mattering, wounds inflicted. Irene flopped on her back on the sofa, holding her neck and heaving for breath. John clutched his left shoulder, falling on his back, eyes on the ceiling where Kate’s fairy lights dangled high above them. Ave Maria could practically be heard in the background (quite literally, Mrs Hudson was having one of her <em>moments</em>). Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbed a confetti maker himself and walked over to John. </p><p>“I see the light,” John gasped, the healthy arm stretching towards the artificial light of heaven. Sherlock bent over to look him in the face, scrutiny and curiosity mixed with wonder of how long he will stay in character. “David Bowie? Is that you?”</p><p>“Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock said formally, “but David Bowie was too busy to attend your last breaths. May an ordinary Brit accompany you instead?”</p><p>“Noo,” John groaned, and Sherlock could see the restraint as he tried not to break character. “I’ve got a date tonight with a gorgeous bastard that’s more British than you. I need to get back to Earth.”</p><p>Sherlock gave him a pitying smile, and drew his weapon. John’s eyes darted from the confetti cannon to Sherlock, daring him to <em>try</em>. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go yet. David Bowie is quite keen on seeing you. Any last wish?”</p><p>“Yeah, tell that gorgeous fucker he can keep my skull,” John fake glared, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then, all of a sudden, he surged forwards and snatched the cannon from Sherlock’s grip, dragging the taller boy down and on his back. John had him pinned, crouching over him, the cannon pointing at his chest, a victorious smirk on John’s face. “Ha. Didn’t expect that, did you?”</p><p>“Get a room, you two,” Irene said, feigning vomiting much to Kate’s amusement. Sherlock showed her the middle finger and she made to slap it, but John fired off the cannon above their heads declaring the war over. </p><p>“Can you kids stop messing about for once and sweep the floor?” Lestrade’s voice came from above, the man dressed in his best (midnight blue) shirt and dark grey trousers, a silver chain around his neck. “The party’s starting in half an hour. I want everyone to be ready to scam the locals!”</p><p>“Would you believe he’s Canadian?” Irene murmured as John coughed to mask his laugh. </p><p>“I heard that, Irene,” Lestrade said, descending the stairs from the upper level of the house. Unfortunately, his scrutinizing interest to admire Kate’s the décor caused him to skip a step and almost trip on the stairs. He managed to hold onto the railing, the wood creaking painfully under his death grip as he balanced himself. “Hey! Stop snickering! I could’ve ended up in the ER! Who would pay for the bills? Jesus save me from the American healthcare system.”</p><p>John and Irene lost it completely, shortly followed by Kate bellowing nearby the makeshift buffet in the corner. Sherlock was the only one who, through sheer force of self-preservation, remained composed. But it was a close call and he compensated for it by raising his eyebrows sky high until they almost reached his hairline. </p><p>“I told you about the stairs, bro! I told you about the stairs!” Irene cackled, wiping a tear from her cheek. John joined her reference to that abhorrent webcomic and soon they were in stitches again. </p><p>“Alright, quiet!” Lestrade commanded, more resigned than stern. The kids lined up in front of him and even Mrs Hudson joined them, putting a tray of blueberry muffins on the buffet table. She smoothed out her apron and her heels clicked as she stood next to Kate. She was positively glowing since her date with Angelo. Lestrade continued, checking his watch. “I know I allowed this party to take place here, but I sure hope you won’t ruin my house, okay? Kate, you’ve organised this nicely so far. Good job, you certainly have an eye for detail. Just…. <em><strong>no</strong></em>fire in the house, hear me?”</p><p>“Clearly, sir!” Kate saluted like a soldier, bowing to be extra. “And thanks. I’m glad you like it! But one thing remains. John, Sherlock -- could you be outside and sell tickets to those who want to get in?”</p><p>“Why don’t you sell them yourself?” Sherlock asked. He thought Kate had dealt with everything already and had a system working. Weren’t they all supposed to be attending the party <em>inside</em>? </p><p>“I promise I’ll let you off the hook after that,” Kate said, turning to Mrs Hudson. “You’ll help me take care of the music, right?”</p><p>“Oh yes,” Mrs Hudson chirped. She positively glowed ever since her and Angelo’s date. “Irene sent me youtube videos of songs that ‘bang’ a lot these days. Not exactly my taste but I got the gist of it!”</p><p>“Good. Irene, you’re my second in command.”</p><p>“Ma’am, yes ma’am!” the girl saluted, tossing her long, black braided hair out of the way. </p><p>“Greg, you could be at the ticket stand, then,” Kate suggested. </p><p>“No way I’m leaving the house with dozens of teenagers on the premises,” he protested, standing his ground. Kate sighed, and looked at John and Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head, unwilling to play her puppet on the night when he and John were supposed to have their first date. She even <em>urged</em> them to get together! Is this even fair?</p><p>“We can take the place,” John said, nudging Sherlock with his elbow. </p><p>“What? Why should we?” Sherlock turned to him, disbelieving as to what he’d just heard. </p><p>John gave him a shrug. “We’ll be together. I mean, we can sell all the available tickets and then bugger off and do our thing, no?” He looked to Kate to confirm. </p><p>“Sure,” the girl nodded. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you have your date and that I suggested this to you, but business is business and you agreed to help me while you were conscious, so….” Sherlock put on his poker face, and glanced at Irene who looked at him apologetically. </p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“Good, then. Sorry again. Now go and get ready. John, Greg will give you the cash tin.”</p><p>Before John followed Lestrade back into the house, he tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve. “Hey, take it from this side: we can pass the time by deducing all the people who pass us! It’s like a prologue to our date.”</p><p>“Do normal dates have prologues to them as well?” Sherlock regarded him with a raised eyebrow. The deduction game sold the idea to him, though. </p><p>“Were we ever normal in the first place?” John grinned, squeezing his arm. Sherlock felt his lips reciprocate the expression. “Screw ‘normal’ -- we make our own rules for dating.” John gifted him a mischievous wink and rushed after his uncle. </p><p>Sherlock watched him go, checking him out in the process shamelessly -- he <em>was </em>allowed to do that now, wasn’t he? Someone had to appreciate the view and how the denim hugged John’s thighs and his butt. </p><p>Soon after John vanished in the house, panic creeped up on him. </p><p><em>We make our own rules for dating</em>. But what are the rules? What rules should they make? Is it like a contract? Agreement? Possibilities whirled around his mind like tornadoes, wiping his earlier confidence from the face of the Earth. </p><p>Sherlock snapped from his trance, hurrying upstairs to the attic. He had to dress up. Irene had already gotten there, brushing her long dark hair with practised precision and care. She was dressed in a knee-long red skirt and a white tank top that bore a fanart of a random character from the webcomic she kept rereading. </p><p>“There you are!” she said, spotting Sherlock in her mirror’s reflection. She put her brush back in the bedside drawer. “Can you braid my hair?”</p><p>Sherlock hummed and walked over to his step-sister, long fingers carefully dividing her thick mane into three even parts. Irene could do it herself, but she preferred when somebody else could overlook the process. Sherlock practised braiding her hair since they were children, and he became quite good at it. He flipped one thick strand over another, rhythmically tying the hair in place so that it wasn’t too tight, but neither too loose. He tapped Irene’s shoulder once he got to the end, palm turned upwards as she placed a rubber band in it. </p><p>“Thank you, brother-dear,” she purred, satisfied with his work, as was Sherlock. She angled the mirror, checking herself out. Even when braided, her hair reached Irene’s lower back. She tended to it since she was ten years old -- almost a full decade worth of growth now. Putting the mirror down, she asked, “So, what are you going to wear?”</p><p>Sherlock sucked in a breath, looking at his suitcase and wardrobe his clothes occupied. He felt like jeans, although appropriate, didn’t quite fit tonight. Trousers may be a bit too much, though. God, he had no sodding idea. Irene seemed to read his thoughts, because she took charge and graciously started combing through his things. </p><p>“No, no, no,” she said, tossing t-shirts and shirts on the floor. Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t comment. It was perhaps better to let her choose an outfit for him -- she was a fashion student, after all. “Damnit, Holmes, your formal attire of black and white is going to give me a headache.”</p><p>“What’s wrong with my white and black shirts?”</p><p>“Nothing, that’s the problem. You had coloured ones too, where did you put them?”</p><p>“Which ones?”</p><p>“The blue, and the…. Aha! Here, wear this one,” she passed him his shirt in the colour of an eggplant she bought him as a birthday present last year. He liked it a lot, actually, but weren’t it for her, he would’ve forgotten about it. She also threw him a fresh pair of charcoal black trousers to go with it. “Now go and change. But come back here so I can style your hair.”</p><p>Sherlock obliged, trotting downstairs to the bathroom. The light there wasn’t ideal, but he had to admit the colour suited him rather well, bringing out the colour of his hair and his pale skin. His hair was a mess, though, from running his hands through it for far too many times to count. He padded back to the attic, throwing his previous clothes in the corner. </p><p>Irene ordered him to sit on her bed as she armed herself with a comb, sprays, and oils. She made it a quick work -- she had also practised on Sherlock’s hair as they grew up. Curls were a tough job to maintain, and she was one of the few who bothered to learn how to master the craft. </p><p>Eventually, after what Sherlock thought felt like centuries, she put her gear aside, using her fingers to ruffle and fluff up his hair to her liking. She took a step back, forefinger pressed against her lips as she assessed him like some sculpture. She whirled one stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear, loosening another on his forehead. Irene hummed contentedly, but instructed Sherlock to sit still as she rummaged through her makeup bag taking out powder highlighter. </p><p>“Really, Irene?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as she unscrewed the lid and dipped a big fluffy brush in the little bronze balls. </p><p>“Shush, I’ll highlight just a little,” she said, dragging the brush lightly over his skin. “You’ve no idea how those cheekbones of yours can work. A little colour to make them slightly prominent and bam -- people turn their heads like hungry owls.”</p><p>“I need just one person to turn around,” Sherlock remarked dryly. Irene smirked. </p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that anymore,” she said, tucking everything away. She gave him a nod to signal she was done and pressed a mirror to his chest. He had to admit, he looked pretty good. There was no visible colouration on his cheekbones, but just enough powder settled on them to make them look sharp and refined without being too prominent. </p><p>“Thank you,” he said quietly, running hands over his thighs nervously. Now what? He had to come up with a protocol on how to act tonight. </p><p>“So what’s the plan?” Irene asked, cleaning up her mess. She opened the window to let fresh air in. She looked at Sherlock, who stared at his feet, mind racing to invent checkpoints for the date. “Sherlock? Please, don’t tell me that that big brain of yours is overthinking your date with John?”</p><p>“What? No…”</p><p>“Bloody hell, Holmes! What is there to overthink?” Sherlock growled, hands shooting up to his hair to grab at it, but Irene stepped into his personal space and slapped them away. “Touch those curls and I’ll <em>cut </em>you.”</p><p>“Look, Irene -- I don’t have structure, a guide, to navigate through tonight. I realised it too late! What are you supposed to do on a first date?”</p><p>“Have fun! That’s all there is to it, Sherlock!” </p><p>Sherlock wasn’t convinced. “And besides that? Fun has got to be initiated, somehow. I searched my Mind Palace for instances where people talked about or shared their impressions of their first dates and --”</p><p>“Bloody hell, you and your ‘Mind Palace’....”</p><p>“-- I came to the following conclusion: there is a slight pattern. Smile, laugh at their jokes, nod when the situation expects you to, flirt when appropriate, and look attractive.”</p><p>“Sherlock, it’s not rocket science…”</p><p>“Therefore I resorted to a mental checklist,” Sherlock said triumphantly, getting to his feet. Irene took the vacated spot on her bed, sighing as he paced up and down the attic room. “But since Kate recruited us to sell the tickets, I’ll have to improvise. The ‘fun’ can be managed through my deductions, as John pointed out. But what about when we join the party inside? Flirting is probably a suitable option in that case. As for looking attractive…”</p><p>“I already made sure of that,” Irene said, bemused. “Sherlock, shut up for a minute and listen to me -- you don’t need a complicated plan for the date to be perfect. John likes you, you like him. That’s all there is to it. Just be yourself! You and John always have fun together, no matter the circumstance.”</p><p>Sherlock pondered that, finger steepled under his chin. “Hm. John did say that as well. But…”</p><p>“There is no ‘but’,” Irene said sternly. She stood up, putting on her sneakers. “Now do me a favour, go join John to scam the locals, and enjoy yourself. Alright?”</p><p>“Alright,” Sherlock said after a while, padding barefoot to the stairs. He returned abruptly, muttering, “After I get my shoes.”</p><p>Once sure his appearance was tip-top, Sherlock and Irene returned downstairs where Kate and Mrs Hudson got the DJ setup ready and working. Lestrade was smoking outside, and John helped himself to iced lemonade by the buffet. Sherlock scanned him head to toes; he was wearing jeans with an unbuttoned light blue shirt, white tank top underneath, freshly ironed. His usual bird nest of hair was tamed by hair gel, its use careful and not excessive. </p><p>When John noticed Sherlock, he also let his eyes wander over the whole of his sight, grinning when their eyes met. John outstretched a second cup to Sherlock, taking a long sip. </p><p>“Ready to scam people, handsome?” John asked teasingly. </p><p>“You’re desperate to break the outdated stereotype of nice Canadians, aren’t you?” Sherlock said, drinking the whole of his cup. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was. “And, uhm… Thanks. The blue suits you.”</p><p>“Thank you, and not really. Although, I bullied Kate and Greg into paying me ten percent of tonight’s profits as compensation for the tickets duty,” he said slyly, tossing his paper cup in the bin. “I need to get some more spare change from the gift shop and then we can go.”</p><p>“Go ahead, I’ll get it,” Sherlock said, not waiting for John’s response. He asked over his shoulder how much he should bring from the cash register. </p><p>“At least ten dollars, I think,” John shouted, going outside. “Get the quarters!”</p><p>Sherlock crossed the museum to get to the gift shop and he made it a quick job to fetch the spare change. On his way back he wandered to the bathroom located on the first floor to refresh himself and see if there were any adjustments in order of his physical appearance. </p><p>Inside, he washed his hands compulsively and he let them stay under the stream for a long moment, hypnotised by the flow of water and the deafening sound it sent across the bathroom. Suddenly, a nagging feeling made him turn to the right, his sight catching a glimpse of something covered in an old ragged cloth propped against the wall tiles. Uncharacteristically, an invisible pull and faint whispers lured him forward, dragging his feet over to the object. Hand outstretched, he tore the sheet down, letting it fall to the ground in a hushed rustle. </p><p>A tall, rectangular mirror appeared before him. There was nothing fancy about it, except for the reflection itself that stared back at Sherlock, inquisitive and curious. He put hands on his narrow hips, finding himself adoring the outfit. Irene knew what she was doing, and he was glad he had her on his side in such trying times that first dates turned out to be. </p><p>He looked around the claustrophobic bathroom self-consciously, ensuring he’s the sole soul in there. Once assured, he turned around in front of the mirror, checking himself from different angles. Yep, he definitely didn’t look half bad. </p><p>“Pretty stunning, actually,” his reflection said, making him jump. “Sorry! Haha, sometimes I forget I’m just a mirror.”</p><p>Sherlock stared at himself. Or, the reflection that now seemed to move on its own. While Sherlock stood backed up against a crate, his looking-glass version winked at him and eased the topmost button on his purple shirt. Unconsciously, he repeated the gesture. </p><p>“There! I think that should complete the picture,” his other self said gleefully. Sherlock shook his head to snap out of his shock. </p><p>“Pardon my ignorance,” he said, taking a step closer, “but what -- who -- <em>are </em>you? I don’t remember reading about you in the journal.”</p><p>His reflection barked out a laugh, so not him, shifting its imaginary weight to his left (right?) leg. “I don’t exactly flail my secrets around. I only reveal myself to those in need.”</p><p>“<em>Am</em> I in need of help?”</p><p>“I picked up on your imbalance,” the mirror said cryptically. “I sense auras. You’d be surprised how much you humans emit; that’s usually what you see in mirrors, and why it may look better or worse than your meat suit. I think the saying goes ‘it’s what’s inside that matters’ -- and it is true, to some degree.”</p><p>“And my aura ceases to be properly balanced?” Sherlock frowned, brows furrowing funnily. His mirror self grinned. It was strange seeing emotions play out on his face when he hadn’t explicitly shown them. </p><p>“It’s just a little ruffled, nothing else,” his other self mused. “I called upon your aura to see you face-to-face. Quite literally. You’re fascinating. You wouldn’t believe how boring life as a stationary mirror is. You and a few other folks have proved to be interesting, though. Your auras are stronger than any other ordinary souls.”</p><p>“Who’s ‘we’?”</p><p>“Unimportant at the moment,” the mirror said, clasping its -- Sherlock’s -- hands together. “Now, you need a kick of self-esteem. The clothes are perfect, but I can sense the unease deep in your guts. I know you have a plan in mind -- and that’s good! Always be prepared. But throw in a little playfulness. Guys like John like it.”</p><p>“How can I trust you?” Sherlock said, putting up a hand to stop the mirror’s excited rambling. “I’ve had the honour of meeting a number of enchanted and mystical beings and items, where’s my proof that you’re being truthful?”</p><p>“Dude, I’m a mirror,” his mirror self proclaimed, gesturing its hands up and down. It was odd to hear his voice say ‘dude’. “You think I can run after you and kill you in your sleep? I’m bored. You tend to be often as well. Your date night is basically the only entertainment I have! Have some empathy, yo.”</p><p>Sherlock considered it. Truly, it was just a talking mirror. There was a side note in the journal about mirrors, but it all referred to a previous journal he hadn’t discovered yet. Quick search on Google told him that it is believed that mirrors can act as portals and because of that it is inadvisable to sleep with one in the same room, especially if it is facing the bed or worse, the window. But this mirror? Despite Sherlock’s initial doubt, it seemed harmless. </p><p>“Alright, I’ll try your advice,” Sherlock said, swallowing down the incoming nervousness he felt cramp in his stomach. God, tonight had to be perfect. It just had to. “Do you expect updates from me?”</p><p>“Actually, if you angle me to the window, it connects me to any reflective surface near you and I can follow you,” his mirror self said, proud of his abilities. Upon seeing Sherlock’s concerned and suspicious frown, it added, “No, not like that. I’m confined to this side of the world! Yay for you! Besides, I can’t speak if I’m a reflection of a reflection, if you get me. Heh. I’ll just make faces at you if you need to do something or not. You want your date to end well, and I want to help.”</p><p>“Okay. Sure. Let’s try this out. But I reserve the right to shatter you to pieces if you turn against me, somehow. Welcome on board, I guess?”</p><p>His reflection grinned widely. “Pleasure’s all mine, Sherlock.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the most sherlockiest of them all? you!<br/>more johnlock coming on the 5th of february!<br/>How are you peeps doing? i was thinking of starting a collection flowers once spring kicks off and press them later, tho we will see how restrictions go</p><p>Updated: 30.1. 2021<br/>Word count: 4273<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a happy day/night wherever you are~</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Minor Reflections II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is Janine</p>
<p>episode 7, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Date night continues!<br/>And there's a new person to rile us up<br/>thank you for reading and enjoy!<br/>specials thanks to bee, dee, and tobi who likes slovak cheese strings</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene leaned on the railing of the stairs platform that descended to the dance floor below. The lights were dimmed and turned purple and pink, several decorations she and Kate hung up reflecting the light on the walls and floor. Mrs Hudson operated the DJ set, headphones on, shades shielding her eyes. </p>
<p>“Looks good so far,” Greg said, leaning next to her. Irene jumped at the sudden intrusion, but smiled. The room started filling with people. She saw Mike Stamford and Eddie Van Coon enter and dart to the buffet immediately. </p>
<p>“It does,” she said. “How much do you and Kate charge for the tickets?”</p>
<p>“Ten bucks. And fifteen if anyone wants to leave early,” he laughed viciously, the silver chain around his neck dangling from inside his shirt. Irene noticed a ring hanging from it, and Greg tugged it back in. He registered Irene’s curiosity and cleared his throat. “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay with you.”</p>
<p>“Of course.” Huh, she didn’t know Greg was…. married? Engaged? Or was it a promise, a hope that was never even close to being fulfilled? A pang of sympathy squeezed her heart, wishing she could hug him -- but that would probably make her look overly sappy and Greg uncomfortable. </p>
<p>“Well, how are our two lovebirds doing?” Greg said, changing the topic to a more cheerful one. </p>
<p>Irene raised an eyebrow. “You tell me, they’re out selling your Hell tickets.”</p>
<p>“Needs must,” he gave a shrug. She noticed that the hair at his temples greyed further. He should really just bleach it and dye it to silver-grey. “And they’ll have fun. They’re creative enough.”</p>
<p>“You may be right. I never would’ve expected you to be so invested in your nephew’s love life.”</p>
<p>“Hey, I care about him. And ever since they met two… weeks ago…. Well, let’s say I just know, like you, that these two are made for each other, alright? We already agreed on that. Now if you excuse me, I need to go pester Kate about playing some eighties songs so that I can forget whatever you kids call ‘music’ nowadays.”</p>
<p>Irene watched him go, her sight falling on two girls that took to sitting on two plastic chairs in a faraway corner. They were engrossed in a conversation, but what drew Irene to them was the fact that both were wearing t-shirts with Homestuck fanart. Her feet carried her to them at a supersonic speed. </p>
<p>“You guys read Homestuck?!” she breathed, clasping her hands together happily. </p>
<p>The two girls blinked in surprise, then broke into exclamations. </p>
<p>“You do too?”</p>
<p>“Oh my God, I love you!”</p>
<p>“I started rereading it this summer!” Irene said, sitting down on the floor before them. The girl on her left was smaller, brown hair in a high ponytail, her smile shy but joyful. The second girl was taller, maybe even more than Irene, with dyed blue hair and large round glasses sitting on her nose. “What are your names?”</p>
<p>“I’m Violet Hunter,” the taller girl said. “And this is Molly Hooper.”</p>
<p>“And what’s your name?” Molly asked sheepishly, her gaze attentive to Irene’s every move. </p>
<p>“Irene Adler. Pleasure to meet you, fellow crazy people!”</p>
<p>“You’re British,” Violet said in awe, shaking Irene’s hand. “I can die happily now.”</p>
<p>“Never met a Brit before?”</p>
<p>“Nah, only saw you guys in movies.”</p>
<p>“Jeez, that makes it sound like we’re some unicorns,” Irene laughed, standing up. “I have an important question -- do you ship Davekat?”</p>
<p>As a response, Violet and Molly both yelled ‘YES!’ so enthusiastically the window behind them shuddered in its pane. Irene wanted to tear up -- she had found her kind! At that moment, Kate took the microphone to announce the party’s main event. </p>
<p>“Y’all, attention on me, please!” she shouted in the mic, deafening the mob. A few people covered their ears at the ambush. “Thanks! It is my <em>pleasure </em>to announce that tonight we are hosting a friendly competition! Any number of people can compete, and they will get to compare their strength in dancing, dancing in pairs, singing, and finally the people will decide who wins by voting! The prize is this cute little crown we bought at seven-eleven for fifty cents! If you want to enter, do it now.”</p>
<p>Kate waited for volunteers to raise their hands or come to the podium on which she and Mrs Hudson operated. Grave silence filled the room. A young woman, no older than Irene, pushed through the crowd and started speaking to Kate.</p>
<p>“Janine O’Leary,” Violet hissed as Molly cowered back. “She always makes others feel bad just because she’s rich and pretty.”</p>
<p>Irene watched the brunette next to Kate speak fervently in hushed tones. She was sure that with every word, Kate’s eyebrows would disappear in her hairline. </p>
<p>“Listen honey,” Kate said when she had had enough. “I don’t know where you got it, but this is a fair competition and I’ll be damned if I’d let you take the crown as you snap yo’ fingers.”</p>
<p>Janine snatched the microphone from her, laughing incredulously and pointing at the crowd. “Look, no one here can match my grace or prowess. Honestly, you think someone like that boy stuffing his cheeks with chips has more talent than me? I took classes for dancing and singing since I was three, I’m better than you regulars. I deserve the crown.”</p>
<p>“Honey.” Irene fought hard not to laugh. Kate was reaching her limits of dealing with obnoxious white people. Or one in particular. “One more word from that bratty mouth of yours and you’re out. Give others a chance to join before I break your nose, a’ight?”</p>
<p>Janine looked scandalized, but Kate gave zero fucks, and so did Irene. The crowd gasped at Kate’s bold words, but no one came forth.</p>
<p>“I’ll compete!” she raised her hand. Everyone gasped, again. Janine looked amused, but oh, she had no idea what was coming for her. Irene and Kate locked gazes, determination shining brightly in both. She’ll show Janine what a ‘regular’ is capable of. </p>
<p>“We have two champions, then!” Kate shouted, deafening everyone again, static popping loudly. “Sorry y’all. We will begin in fifteen minutes! In the meantime, enjoy some Ed Sheeran!”</p>
<p>The crowd cheered and got moving in rhythm with the beat of the song. Irene turned to Janine, offering her a hand to shake, which was graciously ignored by the girl. Ah, so it’s like this. </p>
<p>“I’m Irene, by the way, nice to meet you too,” Irene said dryly,fighting the urge to roll her eyes. </p>
<p>“Janine O’Leary,” the brunette said, looking funnily at her. It was the typical ‘I don’t talk with peasants’ look. Who did that these days? “May the better -- so, me -- win.” And off she went to drown in her selfishness. </p>
<p>“She’s going down,” Irene grinned, waving her goodbye. Kate hummed in agreement. </p>
<p>“Get that bitch, hun,” she said, returning to Mrs Hudson who gave Irene a thumbs up. “Or I’ll really give her nose a plastic surgery with my knuckles.”</p>
<p>Irene nodded, high-fiving Kate as she returned to Violet and Molly. The girls looked astonished, if a little frightened and in awe. </p>
<p>“Did you just agree to compete with Janine?” Molly gaped, clinging to Violet. There was admiration in her glassy brown eyes. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I don’t see why not,” Irene shrugged. “She needs to learn how to lose, so I’ll show her who’s the boss here.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>John stifled a yawn, his left fist covering his mouth, his eyes watering. It was astounding how desperate people were to be ripped off. He handed a scrawny kid his change and Sherlock tore him a rectangle of useless piece of coloured paper to bring inside with him. </p>
<p>So far, the evening went fine. True, he held a tiny flame of grudge against Kate and Greg -- and rightfully so -- for interfering in his evening plans with Sherlock, but as long as he was near the boy he fancied, he didn’t mind the duties. </p>
<p>The incoming line of guests seemed never-ending, but eventually things calmed down. Sherlock muttered a deduction or observation here and there, John barely concealing his enjoyment of the gossip material he had earned. As soon as the last person in line passed inside, Kate’s speech got to them. </p>
<p>“Let the party competition begin!”</p>
<p>“Wow, seems really wild in there,” John commented, sneaking a glance into the room behind the orange-and-red stained glass. “And pretty packed. I’m actually glad we have some space.”</p>
<p>“Me too,” Sherlock said, leaning his back against the cheap plastic folding chair. John watched as he stretched, purple shirt tightening over his ribs. He licked his lips and rubbed his nose, prying his eyes from the gorgeous man next to him and focused on the yard. </p>
<p>The sun had set, and stars high above shone bright, although distant and far in-between the clouds. Crickets sang in the grass, the forest eerily quiet compared to the party booming in the Shack. A petrol lamp illuminated their ticket stand (which consisted of a wooden plank being propped on concrete bricks, John’s back thanking Greg passive-aggressively), the cash tin filled to the brim. </p>
<p>“Do you want to go inside?” John asked, rotating the tin between his palms at the base. </p>
<p>Sherlock looked at him, then at the window, frowning passingly as he opened and closed his mouth undecidedly. “Uhm… For dancing?”</p>
<p>“I mean, if you want to,” John said hurriedly. “I don’t particularly like when there is an avalanche of people stepping on your toes. But I could fetch us a drink or some food?”</p>
<p>“And then we’d dance?”</p>
<p>“Uh, sure. But in that case we’ve got a problem.” He put up a hand when Sherlock’s pupils widened with panic at that. “No-no-no, nothing sinister. I just… don’t know how to dance. Classically.” John grimaced and scrunched up his nose as he said it, unsure of what to expect. He risked a glance at his date. </p>
<p>Sherlock seemed to find that hilarious. “No? Well, I think it’s about time you learned, then,” he said, standing up and John’s heart beat hard against his chest. “Although I have to agree that we should probably wait until it clears out.”</p>
<p>“We can do it here,” John proposed, tucking the chair in. “Plenty of space, plus we get to breathe fresh air and no one else’s stinky carbon dioxide.” He moved closer to Sherlock, who chuckled at the unnecessary involvement of chemistry, and circled the table so that they stood on the pathwalk connecting to the main road. He offered his palm. “May I?”</p>
<p>John was sure Sherlock was blushing under the cover of shadows of the night sky. Truth be told, he never looked better -- well, perhaps every day -- and John fought the urge to kiss him <em>hard</em>. He’d swear that his cheekbones were even sharper today, as if to tempt him further. <em>Take it easy, Watson</em>, he told himself. </p>
<p>“I should think your telling me that you’re rubbish at dancing was only a ploy to lure me from my date, Mister Watson,” Sherlock said slyly, taking John’s hand, sending a jolt of energy through him. The touch was comforting, familiar, and tender, but also the tiniest of bits apprehensive, as if to make sure that this was okay. John squeezed his fingers lightly, pulling him closer. This was <em>very</em> okay.</p>
<p>“Is it working?” John smiled, looking up into those bright azure and teal eyes. Sherlock sighed (dreamily?), blinking at the black heavens above. </p>
<p>“It may be,” he said dramatically. He put his free hand on John’s right shoulder, instructing him to put his own on his waist. “Alright, you will lead. Although usually, the taller partner leads --”</p>
<p>“You calling me short again?” John deadpanned, tone serious. Sherlock’s eyes snapped down at him, fearful and startled, as if he crossed a line. John laughed, spinning them around to his best ability. “I’m just teasing you,” -- he squeezed his hand again to reassure him -- “and I could ask you how the weather is like up there. You’re taller than anyone I know!”</p>
<p>Sherlock lightened up at that, squeezing back. “I take the precaution of good clothes and short friends.”</p>
<p>God, John hoped <em>he </em>wouldn’t be <em>just </em>a <em>friend</em> anymore after this. </p>
<p>“Something tells me you’re just fancy,” John’s mouth tilted upwards, forcing his legs to move when Sherlock nudged him. He navigated them in small circles, Sherlock taking the lead when John got flustered -- which happened often. </p>
<p>“You’re thinking too much,” Sherlock said, humoured by John’s lack of coordination and overly mechanical movements that were more rusty than fluent. </p>
<p><em>I wonder why</em>, John thought to himself, huffing out a nervous laugh. Jesus, this was embarrassing. Why did he even bring up dancing? Everything about Sherlock was distracting -- the proximity, the contact, his purple shirt that was now under John’s fingertips, his breath close to John’s…. It was overwhelming, but in a good way. This… <em>them </em>alone, this was good. More than good. Fucking brilliant. </p>
<p>Sherlock took the lead then, turning them around flawlessly. John let out a flustered laugh, making their chests connect momentarily and he sucked in a breath. If he stood on his toes and tilted his head to the side… </p>
<p>Sherlock’s pupils were wide, pulse fast, lips slightly parted as their eyes met. Mutual understanding seemed to have crossed them both, and John’s left hand slowly ran up Sherlock’s arm and neck, cupping his cheek. At first, he didn’t react, eyes darting back and forth between John’s, as though his brain was experiencing an error. Cringing at his impatience, John withdrew his hand, apologising.</p>
<p>“No, wait!” Sherlock breathed, touching John’s fingers and entwining them with his own. “That, uhm… I don’t mind that.”</p>
<p>A swarm of butterflies fluttered in John’s stomach, and he slowly returned his hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw. Music ignored, there were only the two of them, together, against the rest of the world.</p>
<p>And then… </p>
<p>The doors banged open and closed as a pair of teenage boys ran out of the Shack, making them both jump apart at the intrusion. John closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath in order not to snap at the kids who were around fourteen years old. They weren’t even supposed to be there! How did they sneak in?</p>
<p>“That’s the lamest party I’ve ever been to,” one of the brats said. John clenched his fists, blinked his frustration away as he approached them midway on their leave. “What?”</p>
<p>“The fee for leaving sooner than before ten is thirty-five bucks,” John said, crossing his arms. Both young boys were shorter than him and their arms were thinner than spaghetti. Fuck fifteen dollars, he’d scam the whole town for this.</p>
<p>“That’s bullshit,” the boy said, his friend nodding fervently. “Who pays for leaving a party? I want a refund!”</p>
<p>“No refunds, that’s stated on the leaflet,” John added, silently enjoying this. He won’t hesitate to literally make them pay when he was <em>this close </em>to kissing Sherlock. Thinking of him, he glanced over his shoulder to see him look just as sour as John felt. </p>
<p>“Fuck the leaflet! I want my money back! I don’t have piles of cash to swim in!”</p>
<p>“Untrue,” Sherlock chimed in, taking a stand next to John. To his thrill, he rested his forearm on his shoulder, leering at the scrawny teens using all of his height to his advantage. “Your wallet can survive a little bleed from your more than adequate allowance. Your father is a businessman travelling across the US to negotiate sales with companies as is indicated by the baseball cap you’re wearing that bears the logo of the company your father works for --pretty cheap, if you ask me -- and your mother works from home because it is convenient. You are here despite getting grounded for talking back, I assume, since you’re so <em>angry </em>and insufferable. This is your way of rebelling against your parents, who spare little to no time to take interest in your life, smothering you with money and drowning you in toys whenever you please as a small compensation for the lack of involvement.”</p>
<p>John watched the kid and his friend go white as sheets the more Sherlock’s speech elaborated on the boy’s private life. Oh, this was <em>delightful</em>. He knew he shouldn’t indulge Sherlock when he was getting rude, but this, the boys deserved. </p>
<p>“So,” Sherlock said cheerily, “spare us the headache and soil out the cash.”</p>
<p>“How much?” the kid stuttered, grabbing his wallet clumsily. </p>
<p>“Fifty for the inconvenience of mine having to waste my brain cells to deduce you.”</p>
<p>The kid threw a fifty at them, dragging his friend as far from the Shack as humanly possible. They hopped on their bicycles, the boy cursing under his breath. “My father will hear about this!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, whatever. Fuck off, Malfoy,” John called after them, picking up the money. He inspected the green paper. Ulysses S. Grant stared proudly at him. At least he imagined him to. He waved it at Sherlock, who was grinning like a cheshire cat. “That was the most brutal, rude, smart, amazing thing I’ve been a part of.”</p>
<p>“I thought it was the grand viking burial of Nicolas Cage?” Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back. </p>
<p>“Nicolas Cage didn’t earn us fifty bucks,” John chuckled, pocketing the money. </p>
<p>“It’s Lestrade’s and Kate’s.”</p>
<p>“Fuck no, I’m keeping the whole of it. Well, half of it, we’ll split. Small compensation for the interruption, don’t you think?” Sherlock pouted his lips, glancing at the Shack. John cursed at what could’ve been weren’t it for a rich boy getting pissy at the party. </p>
<p>“Maybe I know better compensation,” Sherlock quipped, regarding John shyly. He felt butterflies flutter in his stomach again; that adorable look? Yeah. That got him. John quirked an eyebrow keenly, shifting closer.</p>
<p>“Hey, you two!” Greg slammed the doors open, the long shadow of his figure stretching on the ground. </p>
<p>John’s nostrils flared as he schooled his expression into neutral. “<em>Yes, Greg</em>?” he gritted through his teeth impatiently. He glared holes at his uncle’s silhouette in the strip of light coming from inside, hoping the invisible death ray of his pupils was enough to convey the message. </p>
<p>“Seems like no more visitors will arrive, come in and join us!” Greg shouted through the loud music that rattled the windows. “Actually, I need one of you to deposit the money to the gift shop, and the other to help me bring more food to the buffet. C’mon, the quicker we’re done, the sooner you’ll get me off your backs!”</p>
<p>He shut the doors behind him, leaving them to their devices for a short while. John facepalmed. Hard. <em>Just when things got better</em>. “He’s such a cockblock,” John whined, rubbing his face in frustration. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I told him we agreed on a date tonight and he still bosses us around! Sherlock, sorry --”</p>
<p>“John,” Sherlock put a hand on his back, shutting him up. As aggravated as he was with Greg and <em>another </em>intrusion, he seemed to take it lightly and with a side humour. “It’s fine. Unfortunate how everyone around us decided to have the most abysmal timing in the universe, but it’s alright. I’ll take the cash tin to the shop, you go help Lestrade.”</p>
<p>“Okay, alright,” John exhaled, patting Sherlock’s arm. “Meet me at the buffet? I promise it’ll get better after that. It’s just… ugh.”</p>
<p>“John, I said it’s fine. As long as I get to scam people who walk in on us next with you, I don’t mind.”</p>
<p>John laughed, and Sherlock joined him right after. “Christ, okay. Sorry, really. I mean it. I asked you out, I should have planned this better. Sorry.”</p>
<p>“John, stop being a stereotypical Canadian and go help Lestrade,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, nudging him towards the house. </p>
<p>“Right, we’ll compensate later,” John said, taking a note of how Sherlock bit his lips, smiling at his shoes. “If… you’d like to, of course.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be an idiot John,” Sherlock said, the words full of affection instead of biting. He turned to grab the cash tin, extinguishing the petrol lamp. </p>
<p>“Well, I’ll see you shortly.”</p>
<p>“Oh, and John?” </p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s smile was rueful. “Spill Loca-Cola on Graham’s new shirt, will you?”</p>
<p>“Your wish is my command,” John winked, walking inside and dodging the attending party people as skillfully as he could. He found it hilarious how Sherlock purposefully messed up his grunkle’s name. Once he reached the stairs, he took three at a time and dashed into the kitchen, where Greg had already been waiting. </p>
<p>“Hi, how’s your date going?” he said cheekily, sipping from a soda can. Slurping was probably a better word. He’d tip that can over him right now weren’t it for his self-restraint. He, at least, wanted better timing for his revenge.</p>
<p>John squinted at him and jabbed a forefinger in his uncle’s shoulder. “Pretty well, excluding three minutes ago when you cockblocked me and Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“Sorry, my bad. I promise that this is the last thing I’ll need of you tonight.”</p>
<p>“It better be,” John grunted, rolling his eyes. He let his gaze fall on a carton full of juice boxes and picked it up. “By the way, I don’t want a ten percent cut of the profit.”</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“I want fifteen percent.”</p>
<p>“Oi! Why should you?”</p>
<p>“Because you cockblocked me!”</p>
<p>“Eh. Fair enough. Come on, let’s get the buffet restocked, then.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Cockblock count: 2   <br/>the date will continue on the 10th!<br/>how do you like Janine so far? I hope you're all doing good, peeps!</p>
<p>Updated: 5.2. 2021<br/>Word count: 3576<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Minor Reflections III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a competition and a sneeze</p>
<p>episode 7, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>date night continues on~<br/>thanks for reading &amp; enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and my cool glitter pens for looking supercalifragilisticexpialidocious</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock rushed into the gift shop, doing as much as throwing the cash tin in the register’s general direction (it was sealed, no need to worry about raining money) and scurried to where the sentient mirror was in the bathroom next door. Christ almighty, he almost lost it. First when John asked him about dancing, then when they were actually dancing (and flirting?), and <em>then</em> when they got interrupted. Twice. <em>Twice! </em>He had to collect himself if he were to continue the date. </p>
<p>As of now, he paced up and down in front of his mirror image, the reflection watching him like a hawk. Dutifully, as if awaiting orders. Sherlock indeed saw it, albeit faintly, in the window through which they peeked in on the party within the house. Inaudible, Sherlock registered his shrunken-down silhouette to be cheering him on when he showed John how to dance. </p>
<p>“What do I do?” Sherlock said, tearing his hair out in suppressed hysterics. It had been <em>perfect </em>until a moment ago. Such equilibrium was hard enough to maintain as it was, how were they supposed to get back to it? Would they return to the same blissful, content moment where nothing else in the world mattered? Or will it all flop and end, neither of them deciding dating was worth it? “What do I do? What if John won’t want me after this?”</p>
<p>“You did pretty good, all things considered,” the mirror said carefully. </p>
<p>“What do you mean ‘all things considered’? I wasn’t the one to crash on two people enjoying their time together! Oh God, wait! Did I do something wrong?”</p>
<p>“Nothing I’m aware of,” his other self shrugged, leaning against its mirrored frame, one hand stuffed in a pocket. “Although you are a little too flustered. You are getting into flirting, which is great, but you lack the utter confidence of a hot Brit like yourself.”</p>
<p>“Can you blame me?” Sherlock said, bewildered. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Have you <em>seen </em>John today? He may as well be sex walking on two legs.”</p>
<p>The reflection arched an eyebrow mirthfully. “You’re not even official boyfriends yet and you’re already thinking that far, eh?”</p>
<p>“Not the point,” Sherlock scowled at himself, hands defiantly resting on canted hips. He still couldn’t get used to his reflection not mirroring his every move whenever he went. “<em>He’s distracting</em>. Not that it’s bad, it’s <em>good</em>. Am I really that flustered? He didn’t seem to mind -- did he lie? Is he taking pity on me?”</p>
<p>The reflection giggled, baritone rattling the smooth, polished surface lightly. “I don’t think he does. He is more confident in his actions, though. You have a plan in your Mind Palace, why don’t you use it? Just before this party started, you were determined to cling to it like your life depended on it.”</p>
<p>“John isn’t exactly predictable, and it is merely a checklist,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly in his scientist voice. Long fingers played with the hem of his sleeve. “I cannot apply my accumulated internet knowledge of dating tips to John because he isn’t ordinary. But what is there for me to do? Seduction isn’t my forte. Deduction by seduction, that’s awful to say the least, and I had already deduced him.”</p>
<p>Then, and idea sparked in his mind. John enjoyed his deductions. Eyes connecting with the steely, grey, irises of his reflection with only a hint of his natural eye colour, he nodded at himself. The mirror seemed to be contemplating it, humming. </p>
<p>“Seduction by deduction!” they both declared, fingers pressing into their sealed lips in a prayer motion. “Of course! But whom should I deduce? Turning my attention to John again may be inappropriate, no matter that he declared the opposite opinion days prior. Not many people enjoy being stripped of their barriers, that may turn against me rather unexpectedly if I were to repeat my ill-thought impulse from days prior.”</p>
<p>“I dunno, maybe that would score you a homerun,” his reflection shrugged. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the comparison to sports. Abysmal choice of words. “I think that being straightforward might do the trick, Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“I’m not good with <em>feelings</em>,” Sherlock waved him off, sneering at the last word. “Less so with voicing them. John, on the other hand, can take the lead. If I let him initiate, that can count. That way, I don’t have to worry if I bollocks this up or not.”</p>
<p>“Nah man, just <em>flirt</em>,” the mirror said, bemused. Listening to his baritone pronounce words so neanderthically made Sherlock shiver. “When I said you have a plan, I didn’t think you would opt for psychology and mind tricks to woo him.”</p>
<p>“I shall do what I do best,” Sherlock said, determined and convinced that this plan was going to work. “Any other tips?”</p>
<p>He didn’t miss the hunger in his reflection’s expression which promptly smoothed itself into a smirk. Suspicion roused in his gut, but even if the mirror had malevolent intentions, it had no way of directly harming him. Right? </p>
<p>“Ruffle your hair a little. Yes, like that. Good, you look great! I’ll keep an eye out. I could even warn you in the reflections in case someone is on their way to interrupt you!”</p>
<p>“That sounds like a good idea,” Sherlock nodded, checking himself out one last time before bracing himself for the rest of the night. “If anything, I’ll come back. Or, just wave like a madman and I’ll make an excuse if you have anything to point out to me.”</p>
<p>He saluted to his reflection, letting out a shaky sigh as he put on his mask of indifference. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>The dance floor was devoid of people, save for Janine and Irene. The girls circled each other like lions in a cage, both individually assessing the other’s weaknesses and strengths to calculate their next strike. Except, there were no claws. That is, if you didn’t count Janine’s atrocious fake nails. </p>
<p>The crowd around them cheered, the lights centered in the middle of their staring contest, the spotlight bright and warm. Irene caught a glance of Molly and Violet, who were watching her intently, waving at her whenever their eyes met. This was for them, mostly. Janine needed to be shown that being a bitch and acting like she owned the place wasn’t going to work, not on Irene’s watch. </p>
<p>Kate took the microphone and announced the beginning of the competition. The crowd hurdled closer, eager to witness the clash of titans. Michael Jackson’s <em>Bad </em>started playing, Janine taking the first turn to boogie and show off her curves and moves. Irene watched her, judging her every step. </p>
<p>Admittedly, she was quite good at freestyle dancing. She apparently wasn’t lying when she said she had taken classes since she was a child. Well, Irene was better. </p>
<p>The moment Janine stepped back to allow Irene to do her bit, she slid into the spotlight on her knees, ignoring the burn on her skin. Time to be dramatic to the fullest. Irene’s secret weapon was her experience from living with Sherlock, who could be a right drama queen -- she got most of the flamboyance from him. Now, she could put it to good use. </p>
<p>Irene danced and turned, waving in the sound waves and vibing to the rhythm of the song. People around grew agitated, clapping along and then Janine returned, trying to push Irene out of the limelight, but she didn’t budge. The girls circled closer, proud as peacocks to show off who had better feathers. </p>
<p>The song ended. The crowd cheered. Irene’s chest heaved, lungs gasping for air. The exertion was there, but she had plenty of energy yet to spare. Next up was dancing in pairs. Irene had the right to go first, and to show Janine and everyone else the competition was everyone’s, she drew in Violet and Molly with her. </p>
<p>“Dance like your favourite ship depends on it!” she told them, spinning Molly around, her braided hair trailing in the air. Irene spotted Eddie and Mike on the edge of the crowd and dragged them in as well. She paired Eddie with Violet, both tall as trees, and Mike with Molly. </p>
<p>The pairs stuttered awkwardly at first, but quickly resolved the unexpected tension and put on their best moves. Janine managed to draw in a couple teenagers too, but it was obviously out of her comfort zone. Soon, however, her three companions joined in, shields in their own sense of the word, protecting her from the ‘peasants’ around while still making it look like she enjoyed it. </p>
<p>By the time the song finished, half the party jumped around like kangaroos on cocaine, synchronized under Irene’s leadership. Next up was a half an hour break, and seeing as the pairs Irene set up kept dancing well after the first part of the competition was over, she tiptoed over to the buffet. Thankfully, it was mostly deserted, save for her two favourite people: John and Sherlock. </p>
<p>She waved at them, exhausted but happy. “Enjoying yourselves, boys?” she asked, taking the cup John handed her. </p>
<p>“Not as much as you,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You could command armies with that confidence and skill.”</p>
<p>“Military isn’t really my kink, unlike Sherlock’s,” she grinned into her cup, whilst John and Sherlock spat their drinks out. John started choking, so she patted him on the back. </p>
<p>“Irene, I swear --” Sherlock started, but her laugh stopped him from elaborating. She had the audacity to wink at his red cheeks, pouring them another round of Loca-Cola. “I wanted to congratulate you on your obvious upper hand, but you don’t deserve my praise.”</p>
<p>“Your words wound me,” she pouted mockingly, giggling at the flustered pair. “Relax, I’m joking. Maybe.”</p>
<p>“Irene!”</p>
<p>“What? I’m just happy for you two, is all.”</p>
<p>“By sharing false information about my sexual preferences you’ve no idea about?” Sherlock glared, John snorting into his cup. He leaned his hip on the table, rubbing his face as he tried to stifle his laughter. Sherlock turned to face him, trying hard to frown but failing, the tilt of his mouth betraying his amusement and false anger. “You two are insufferable. Why am I even talking to you?”</p>
<p>“Because I’m your family, you <em>do</em> have a thing for army blokes and uniforms, and he’s John <em>Hot</em>son,” Irene deadpanned, downing her cup and tossing it in the bin. John laughed, covering his embarrassed face in his hands. </p>
<p>“Don’t call me <em>Hot</em>son,” he protested, albeit humoured. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, biting his lip in an attempt not to lose it. “Jesus, you’ll both be the death of me.”</p>
<p>“If you wish. So, what’s up with you two? How’s your date going? I half expected you to be snogging on the couch by now. Amateurs.” Sherlock groaned; John giggled.</p>
<p>“Don’t think I’ll take suggestions from you,” Sherlock said and he glanced behind his shoulder, gaze focused on something behind the window. “Actually, excuse me for a while. I’ll be right back.”</p>
<p>“Everything alright?” John asked, concerned frown wrinkling his brows. </p>
<p>“Yes, John,” Sherlock waved him off, shooting him a glimpse of a smile. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Give me five minutes!” His curls bounced up and down his forehead, beads of sweat forming under his hairline. </p>
<p>The air inside was stale and heavy, so Irene opened a window, John following suit. They breathed in the fresh pine tree essence, as much as it allowed them to. The weather kept on being unpleasantly hot and humid, storm predictions coming and going, but yielding no precipitation.</p>
<p>“But for real now -- how <em>is </em>your date going?” Irene asked, fixing John with a long, candid look. “Greg finally laid off?”</p>
<p>John rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “After he cockblocked us, yeah. For now. But other than that -- it’s amazing! Sherlock is teaching me how to deduce. We’re having fun,” he smiled, dazed and absolutely besotted as his eyes darted to where Sherlock had disappeared. </p>
<p>“Only you two can dig up people’s secrets on your first date and consider it fun,” she said, arching an eyebrow sardonically. “I knew you were made for each other.”</p>
<p>“It does feel like it,” John said sheepishly, hanging his head low to hide his blush. He rolled up his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. Irene approved, thinking it raised his objective attractiveness by approximately ten percent from her years of observation of the dating scene. Smart choice, Watson. “Jesus, it’s crazy, I know. But it just feels so… comfortable. Like we’ve done it thousands of times before. It doesn’t even feel like a first date, we’re just enjoying ourselves like we’re past that stage.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad to hear that. You deserve a bit of a break, what with the mysteries and all.”</p>
<p>“Agreed. Sherlock wound down, too. It’s nice to see him more relaxed than usual.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, he enjoys your company,” she smiled, patting his arm. Her phone rang, alarm going off. Five minutes until the singing competition begins. “I’ll go and get ready. Need to tell Kate which songs I chose.”</p>
<p>“And those are?” John asked, interested in her repertoire. </p>
<p>“You’ll hear soon enough, Watson,” Irene said wickedly, sticking out her tongue at him after he did it first. “You’re so childish! Didn’t they teach you manners in Canada?”</p>
<p>John’s expression was smug and he patted the right pocket of his jeans. “If by ‘manners’ you mean justifiably charging cockblocks fifty dollars, sure. I had plenty of good influence.” He nodded to Greg who sat perched atop the stairs leading to the house, observing the party from safety of uncrowded space. </p>
<p>“The best, I imagine,” Irene said, turning on her heels to catch Kate. She looked over her shoulder when John called out her name. “Yes?”</p>
<p>“Snatch Janine’s wig off,” John said, saluting her a goodbye as Sherlock joined him, curls neatly ruffled into a more flattering composition. </p>
<p>Oh, John. That wig was snatched the second she dared to insult Molly, Violet, and the rest of the party crowd. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>John lifted his chin as Sherlock reappeared next to him. The deduction game turned out to be a brilliant idea (as was everything with Sherlock), and time flew by. Their entertainment fell short as soon as Kate’s competition had begun, Janine O’Leary vs Irene. The winner was obvious to John and Sherlock, but they kept their distance, not wanting to be squashed by other sweaty people. </p>
<p>He had wanted to ask Sherlock for another dance, but his skittish nerves stopped him from doing so. He overcame his earlier shyness in Sherlock’s proximity, but he remained insecure about his dancing prowess in front of strangers. Sherlock, thankfully, didn’t seem to desire heightened chances at contact with American teenagers, either. </p>
<p>“I have an idea,” John said, tugging Sherlock closer to the open windows. Crickets sang and sang, serenading in the vast ecosystem of a forest, covered by a blanket of darkness. “How about we watch Irene beat Janine at singing and then ditch the party? There’s too many people here to my liking. I like the Shack full of dense simpletons during the day, but this is a bit too much.”</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded, blowing a stray curl out of his eye, unsuccessfully. He frowned, but stilled when John shyly lifted his hand to tuck it behind his ear. He watched gingerly as Sherlock’s cheeks tinted with pink, eyes darting back and forth between John and the window. </p>
<p>“Okay, I’ll sound sappy,” John said, “but I really like your hair. How do you even manage it?”</p>
<p>“Lots of quality hair product and patience,” Sherlock mumbled, lightly crumbling a few curls between his fingers before letting them fall on the rest of the mop. “Moisture makes it frizzy and it expands.”</p>
<p>“Hm. It would give you the mad scientist vibe,” John commented, picturing Sherlock’s curls flying widely to different cardinal sides of the world. The chuckle he let out earned him a half-hearted glare. </p>
<p>“Why else do you think I wore that atrocious baseball cap that day on the Lake?”</p>
<p>“You did lose it in the cave,” John reminded him, his heart sinking as he remembered the injury Sherlock sustained in the process of solving Gloria’s mystery. It healed nicely, ice packs and ibuprofen working wonders as time passed. But that didn’t prevent him from wincing at the horrible thought that something worse may have happened. “Why did you risk it? You had no real proof the cave was there.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face was unreadable, his mouth thin and tightly pressed together, those extraordinary eyes showing more green in the light where they stood. “As I said that day, the journal never lied to us. And once you eliminate the impossible -- so, our chances to escape without harm -- whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t always work like that,” John argued, shuffling fractionally closer. “It could’ve ended badly. Both for you and Dean. What would Sam and I do, afterwards?”</p>
<p>“Avenge our deaths?” Sherlock suggested. John stared. “What? I’d like to be avenged should I find myself being murdered by a lonely ghost.”</p>
<p>“Not everyone can read chicken-scratch incantations from old, yellowed pages of a forgotten journal.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be dramatic, John,” Sherlock sighed, in an ironically melodramatic fashion. He frowned at his reflection in the window, something akin to unsureness passing his features. He shuddered, shaking his head and looked at John with those piercing, deducing eyes. “And anyway, I have you to save me, don’t I?”</p>
<p>“Comes in handy, doesn’t it?” John nudged him playfully, both boys descending into giggles. “Hey, I won’t deny that. You’re stuck with me now, so forget you’re ever getting rid of me!”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock gave him a smile that melted icebergs, and John felt an invisible pull in his stomach, guiding him closer. </p>
<p>However, Sherlock’s nose wrinkled, he inhaled sharply, and the next thing John knew, his date had tipped forward, one hand anchoring himself on John’s shoulder and twisted to the side as he sneezed. Softly, like a kitten. </p>
<p>“That,” John said, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist and offering him a napkin, “was the single cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Adorable.”</p>
<p>“I’m neither adorable nor cute, John,” Sherlock said disapprovingly, taking the paper napkin from him. </p>
<p>“Change my mind.”</p>
<p>“I believe I may have lost that argument thirty seconds ago,” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly, rubbing the back of his neck. As if on cue, Kate tapped her microphone three times to get everyone’s attention. </p>
<p>“Y’all,” she said, “it’s time for our last challenge! Whoo!”</p>
<p>John and Sherlock clapped along, the former whistling as Irene walked on the podium, booing when Janine took the place next to her. </p>
<p>“We’ll start then, a’ight? Okay. Irene started the last round, it’s Janine’s call now. The song is a surprise! Let’s roll, everybody!”</p>
<p>“She has an inferiority complex,” Sherlock blurted out for John to hear, ducking his head. </p>
<p>“Hm? Who?”</p>
<p>“Irene’s new rival,” Sherlock said, chin jerking in Janine’s direction. “She’s insecure, you can see how she keeps readjusting her clothes and tucking her hair behind her ear. It’s a facade.”</p>
<p>“Not surprised,” John said, focusing on Janine like Sherlock did -- well, try may be more suitable, but he was right. The tells were there. “She’s from the richest family in town. An heiress or something. Greg hates their guts, but not many share his opinion -- they fawn over them like they’re a royal family. And Janine sure acts like a royal, but less gracious and more like an asshole. She belittles everyone she deems beneath herself -- so like, ninety-nine percent of the town’s population.”</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded, absorbing the new information and filing it away. His eyes intensely followed Janine for a few seconds, groaning when her song started playing. “Seriously? Miley Cyrus?”</p>
<p>“Don’t like her?” John quircocked ked an eyebrow, elbowing him in the ribs playfully. </p>
<p>“Not really my area, though I’d accept Taylor Swift or Sia,” Sherlock shrugged, elbowing him back. The nudges became shorter and quicker until they decided to bump into each other, shoulder to shoulder, ignoring Janine and her mediocre singing skills in favour of harmless wrestling. </p>
<p>Sliding down the wall in a fit of laughter as they threw each other off-balance, Janine’s performance ended, people clapping dutifully, even though none of them seemed to enjoy it. John was happy to register that Sherlock was pressed to his side, head tipped to the left but not quite resting on his shoulder. Should he prompt Sherlock to just lean on him? Or would that be too much? He sure as hell wouldn’t mind. But it was a first date… he won’t push. </p>
<p>“Thank you, Janine,” Kate said, taking the mic from her, cokcing her head at Irene whose red skirt fluttered as she hopped up. People in the crowd already cheered, unlike when Janine appeared. The girl seemed to have noticed, for she scowled at Sherlock’s sister from the side. </p>
<p><em>Too bad</em>, John thought. </p>
<p>“Next up is Irene with….?” she looked to her friend for the title of her chosen song. </p>
<p>“<em>I Will Survive, </em>by Gloria Gaynor,” Irene said, and a couple peeps -- Mike and Eddie included -- roaring happily, approving. </p>
<p>“Oh, she’s got to win this,” John heard Sherlock say as he hugged one of his knees, the other splayed alongside John’s. He smiled, mentally wishing Irene the best of luck. Of course she will win. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>number of times a kissing attempt has gone awry: 3<br/>was Irene joking about the military kink? we will find out someday!<br/>next chapter is coming on the 15th<br/>the slow burn is almost over guys o:) hang in there!</p>
<p>Updated: 10.2. 2021<br/>Word count: 3563<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care, </p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Minor Reflections IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a mirror error</p><p>episode 7, chapter 4</p><p>surprise update!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thought since it's Valentine's I'd gift y'all a lil' somethin' :) it's 9:33pm here<br/>enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and ibalgin for helping my toothache</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was all or nothing. If her dancing abilities weren’t enough to guarantee her the first place, her voice will be. </p><p>The piano notes rolled over one another fluently, halting with a whirl of drama Irene intended to embody, inhaling a deep breath in her lungs, her free hand clutching over her heart as she raised her head in tune to the lyrics. </p><p>“<em>At first I was afraid -- I was petrified</em>,” she sang, the crowd stirring. “<em>Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side…. But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong -- and I grew strong. And I learned how to get along, and so you’re back! From outer space!</em>”</p><p>Irene put a hand on her hip, bouncing in rhythm with the song, Violet and Molly right below her screaming. She threw a glance Janine’s way to emphasise the lyrics.</p><p>
  <em>I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key
If I’d known for just one second you’d be back to bother me</em>
</p><p>She motioned towards the doors on the far right, heads snapping as they followed the gesture, Irene closing her eyes to let the energy swim through her.</p><p>
  <em>Go on now, go, walk out the door!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just turn around now</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Cause you're not welcome anymore!</em>
</p><p>Kate and Mrs Hudson behind her clapped and she barely suppressed her grin. </p><p>
  <em>Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you think I’d crumble</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Did you think I’d lay down and die?</em>
</p><p>Her balled fist shot in the air, knees bending just so as she jumped up and down, her vocal cords vibrating beautifully, words rolling off her tongue, enunciation expressive just the right amount to give Janine the memo. </p><p>
  <em>Oh no, not I, I will survive!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ve got all my life to live</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I’ve got all my love to give and I’ll survive</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I will survive!</em>
</p><p>Now <em>this </em>started the party. Irene vibrated the most exuberant of energies, drawing people to sing with her, move with her -- have the time of their lives. She noticed Eddie Van Coon push through to the front between Violet and Molly, phone in hand and recording her performance. She crouched, winking in the camera as Eddie whistled, joining Irene’s singing. </p><p>As she got up, she walked on the small stage, body flouncing freely as the instrumental solo allowed her to catch a breath. She squinted past the gathered guests to where John and Sherlock were sitting. John waved at her. As a reply, she put her hands up and wiggled like a very ecstatic worm (would that be a description Dave Strider would go for?), faintly registering how Sherlock got up and left after whispering something to John. </p><p>As the end of the legendary song came nigh, Irene picked up all the leftover bits of drama she could muster, falling to her knees and giving her everything to the chorus for the last time. </p><p>The roars and cheers that erupted after her performance were enough to deafen half the town, she was positive. Kate helped her get to her feet and she bowed to her audience, dusting off her skirt. Her standing ovation lasted for a good three minutes. </p><p>“You like it?” Kate shouted over them, and people renewed their claps. “Yeah! That’s what I like to hear! A’ight, here’s what we gonna do -- I have my decibel meter app on my phone, it’ll measure how much exactly you liked Irene or Janine. So, first -- peeps who like Irene, show your love!”</p><p>Passionate shouts and whistles echoed throughout the Shack and its foundation. Irene tried to keep the grin off her face, but when she saw how happy Violet and Molly were, she couldn’t help it. </p><p>“Cool, pretty nice,” Kate said. She took a screenshot of the result. “And now -- show how much you liked Janine!”</p><p>The excitement dampened down a notch, groups of friends exchanging unsure glances. Janine cleared her throat, pointedly lifting her chin up, patting her purse, and the claps elevated to the same, if not slightly higher level as was Irene’s. </p><p>Kate frowned at the app, pursing her lips. She hummed, her expression neutral. Irene turned to Janine, who shuffled nearer to the centre of the podium. All grudges aside, it was a fun night, Irene thought. Janine may be a stuck-up bitch, but perhaps she had a nice evening. The least Irene could do was shake hands with her.</p><p>“Hey, Janine?” Irene said to get her attention. Janine side-eyed her, nose wrinkled as though she smelled a very unpleasant odour (might be her own <em>‘rich’ </em>perfume). </p><p>“Yes?” Janine croaked in her nasal voice, long glittery nails scratching at the corner of her mouth. </p><p>Irene outstretched her hand for Janine to take. “It’s been very nice, this show-off. I enjoyed myself, I hope you did too. So, whoever wins, it’s been a pleasure!”</p><p>“Aw, you think you had a chance?” Janine tutted as though she were talking to a child. Irene let her hand fall besides her body. “Please. These people don’t have standards for a party, that’s why they would like your circus performance. You don’t even have the proper personality of a singer or dancer. You just… <em>move,</em>” -- she made a gesture towards Irene to prove her point -- “and what’s up with your clothes? I don’t recognise the designer.”</p><p>“It’s fan merch,” Irene explained, brows furrowed. She’s going the Mega Bitch™ route, huh. So be it. “Do you know Homestuck? It’s a webcomic. It’s shit, but the fandom acknowledges that and embraces it.”</p><p>Janine gave her a funny look. “Jeez, you’re weirder than you look. No sense for fashion or style.”</p><p>Irene opened her mouth to retaliate. <em>I have no sense of fashion? Have you looked at yourself, Miss Stuck-up Bitch I-Have-Money-But-No-Manners? Fuck off, you sorry excuse of a living organism. What even are these nails? I didn’t know Freddy Krueger had a kid with a facade of makeup that could cover Da Vinci’s fresco of the Last Supper. Utter, bloody --</em></p><p>“Cool, so we have the results,” Kate said, exhaling through her nose. There was mild -- no, concealed -- annoyance in her tone. “It’s Janine. Whoopty-doo. Pass the crown or something, Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>The crowd cheered and Irene found herself speechless. Janine obviously bullied the response via her influence and status. Not that it surprised her, but she hoped for justice. At least Mrs Hudson put the crown on Janine’s head with more recklessness than necessary, ruffling her straightened hair. </p><p>“Thank you all!” Janine said, snatching the microphone from Kate, who looked <em>this</em> close to ripping her tongue out. “Now that I have your attention, I have important news. In fact, my family has invited you all to <em>our </em>party on the Reichenbach Lake! It was my intention to make this announcement at the beginning, but I wanted to see what peasants do in collapsing houses like this one. And since I proved that I am the queen of parties, I’ll be the one to guide you to one where we have chocolate fountains!”</p><p>That seemed to have sold the idea to the gathered party-goers, for all but a few shouted encouragingly, slowly leaving the Shack to relocate to the Lake. No hesitation. Soon there were only a handful of people hanging around: Mike, Eddie, Billy (who appeared out of nowhere with Freddie -- of whom Irene was still in awe of since she missed the part of their theatre night when she was suffering slurpee-induced Bible hallucinations), Greg, Kate, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Violet, and Molly. Oh, and also John, who went to shut the doors closed, frowning. </p><p>“You did great, Irene,” Kate said, hugging her. “She’s just a bitch. She won only by like, a millimeter, but I ain’t sure if that’s what you use with decibels.”</p><p>“Ah, well. I expected it,” Irene said, playing with the hem of her skirt. “We’ll get her next time.”</p><p>“You bet!”</p><p>“You were amazing, actually!” Molly declared, grinning widely at her, Violet too. They ambushed her from each side, engulfing her in a tight hug. “You are a badass, I knew you’d drag her!”</p><p>“I didn’t win the competition, though,” Irene protested, but Violet shook her head. </p><p>“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “You fought like a Valkyrie, making sure we all had fun! And we did! And your singing is angelic.”</p><p>“They’re right,” Eddie chimed up, nodding. “This was one of the coolest show-offs I’ve witnessed, and I’ve been to a couple. You definitely killed it. Janine’s just rich and the majority of this town likes to suck the O’Learys’ ass.”</p><p>“Why, thank you! I had fun for sure. Are you guys staying?”</p><p>“Oh! Can we have a sleepover?” Molly looked hopeful. Then she gasped, realising how it must’ve sounded, blushing furiously. “Sorry, ehm… We just really like you, you’re cool! And British! And I said that already… Uhm, but…”</p><p>“Of course, stay!” Irene hurried to say, hugging the girls again. “Greg won’t mind, and neither will my brother. And there’s plenty of food and drinks left that may go to waste otherwise. Want to reread Homestuck?”</p><p>“Yes!” Violet and Molly exclaimed at the same time. “The party is beginning only now!”</p><p>Kate grouped up with the boys who started swooning over some of the tech. Freddie was wearing a hoodie that covered his arms, had large round shades and a glued mustache on his face. Violet and Molly went to call their mums to bring them pyjamas for the unexpected sleepover, but Irene told them they can borrow her clothes. </p><p>“You were great,” Greg said, hugging her around the shoulder when she sent Violet and Molly in the house. He didn’t seem to mind how fast the Shack was vacated. Quite the opposite, actually. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet, taking out a bunch of green notes. “This is yours; I had a bet with one kid that you’d hit every note in the song -- he dared to be <em>skeptical</em>. Well, you did! So keep it. You made the party quite lovely for a while.”</p><p>Irene’s smile was warm and she hugged him back with such force he gasped for air, staggering backwards. “Thank you for having faith in me, I guess?”</p><p>“Ah, of course I have. I have the honour of knowing you, don’t I? And don’t listen to that rich girl, her whole family is full of jackasses.”</p><p>“So I’ve heard,” Irene mused as Greg excused himself to go for a smoke outside. After that, she was approached by John. </p><p>“I think others have said all the important bits, but just know that my praise is immeasurable,” he said, straightening his back. He looked around, eyes searching for his other half. “Sherlock liked it too, but he rushed off again. I don’t know why.”</p><p>Irene read the anxiousness on his face. Something wasn’t right. She noticed Sherlock leaving minutely two times before -- maybe he was nervous and had a quick smoke, like Greg? But Sherlock had wanted the date as badly as John, and they were enjoying tonight, as much as Greg and Kate allowed them at first -- so where was he? </p><p>“Did he say where he’s going?” Irene asked and John shook his head. </p><p>“Just that he’ll be back soon,” he said, running a hand through his unruly blond hair. “I mean, I could’ve come up with a better idea for a first date… I probably messed up on that front. Didn’t he… talk to you? Complained or something? I can’t help but feel that I made him rethink his decision and he’s just being nice.”</p><p>“Sherlock being nice and not saying when he doesn’t like something? Highly unlikely,” Irene snorted at the image, the <em>horror</em>. But really, what the fuck was he doing? John didn’t look placated. “I think he’s nervous. And you did nothing wrong, scout’s promise. We already know that. Sherlock enjoyed tonight as much as you did, don’t think I didn’t see you cuddling in the corner.”</p><p>“Almost cuddling,” John corrected, but she saw no difference in that.</p><p>“My point is, confront him directly. Go look for him. Don’t let him hide with his insecurities. Come on, shoo, go find your boyfriend.”</p><p>“We’re not --”</p><p>“Not <em>yet</em>, yes, but go. Or I’ll kick your Canadian arse into next Saturday,” she ordered, shoving him towards the stairs leading to the house. “Oh, and tell him the attic room is out of bounds tonight -- my new friends are sleeping over!”</p><p>“Jeez, okay? What if he needs to get something? Like his pyjamas?” John asked, flabbergasted. </p><p>“Either he knocks, borrows it from you, or goes starkers,” Irene winked, leaving John blinking in confusion before her implications dawned on him. “Oh, please. I’m just teasing.”</p><p>“Even about the military kink?” John arched an eyebrow, something smug creeping into his features.</p><p>“My, aren’t you interested? I know he had a magazine or two on military fashion, but…  You’ll have to find out on your own. Just not in the attic room, mind you.”</p><p>John rolled his eyes, but the tug at his mouth suggested he found it funny and not embarrassing anymore. “First I’ve got to get Sherlock to even agree to have another date with me.”</p><p>“He will. Now go, or I’ll really kick you in the shins,” Irene threatened, pointing at the doors. “Snog him silly and be decent!”</p><p>John took three steps at a time, just to avoid listening to Irene’s further implications.</p><p>~</p><p>The party disintegrated; Sherlock witnessed the fallout. Irene was spectacular as always, but he wasn’t surprised to see Janine manipulating the mass of guests to shift localities. The Shack cleared out faster than he’d anticipated, however, and only a handful of people remained. The guys from Kate’s friends group plus Freddie, and an addition of two town girls Irene made acquaintance with. </p><p>The evening was entertaining to say the least. Well -- he got to spend it in John’s presence, of course it was spectacular. But damn, they were so close to kissing. And then he sneezed. He was sure his bloody body hated him. All those damned biological responses coming at the most inconvenient of times…. </p><p>He saw his mirror reflection transparent in the window by which they stood, facepalming after his sneeze. After that, Kate resumed the competition and he could ignore it -- it didn’t feel embarrassing, not much. And John said it was adorable, and even though he hated the term in association with his person, it did calm his nerves. </p><p>Then, they somehow ended up wrestling -- or bumping into -- each other until they ended up on the floor, back pressed into the wall, any and all physical barriers nonexistent. Well, ‘nonexistent’. There was no hesitation to lean in the other’s personal space. And Sherlock did almost rest his head on John’s shoulder, which looked soft and inviting. He also noticed that John’s arms were quite muscular up close. </p><p>But something made him not pursue it. Suddenly, shyness overtook him. Would that be too much? Would it be intrusive? He actually had a feeling far too familiar with John’s proximity that negated his doubts, but that wasn’t enough. For some reason, being near John even like this, touching but not <em>quite </em>was calming, natural. It always was. Curious, how he felt the connection since their crash in the gift shop, unwaning and persistent as if though <em>yes</em>, this was meant to be; meant to feel like this.</p><p>However, Sherlock’s skittishness hadn’t gone completely unnoticed. John certainly didn’t push, but the moment he saw his reflection waving at him fervently from the dark screen of someone’s phone case, the doubts fired anew. </p><p>He had flinched, a knot of unease tying tight inside his stomach. Something definitely had gone wrong if his mirror self kept insisting on being seen so keenly. In spite of his on-the-spot decision, his excuse at that time was perhaps the only truthful one -- needing to use the loo. He had changed his mind about visiting the mirror this time and opted for a bathroom upstairs. He’d given himself one more chance for doubt to strike, and then he’d seek it out. This was further supported by the sort-of-a-hug <em>hug </em>John gave Sherlock around the shoulders before he had left. </p><p>But as soon as people started leaving, a feeling of dread crawled up his spine. What will they do now? John proposed earlier they can just get lost, grab a soda and do their own thing away from the preoccupied space. Sherlock would have liked to drag John outside for another dance. The shared solitude seemed to have alleviated all of John’s doubts and insecurities as he allowed Sherlock to watch him do mistakes and have fun. Yes, that felt nice. </p><p>The untimely migration arranged by Janine O’Leary, however, also caused a disruption. Now that the Shack was left mostly deserted, save for the remaining bystanders, would John want to stay inside? These were people they were both familiar with, but Sherlock didn’t fancy being around them in such an exposed place. The room suddenly felt oppressively large and claustrophobic at the same time.</p><p>He blurted out a half-arsed excuse <em>again</em> and retreated upstairs. He didn’t go to the museum, though. He racked his brain and Mind Palace about it first. Surely John wouldn’t mind getting lost somewhere else, would he? After all, it was their date -- and Sherlock had had enough of interruptions and noise for the day. </p><p>Finding himself in the kitchen, he downed a glass of water, leg nervously tapping against the floor. Hm. It couldn’t hurt to consult the mirror one last time. It <em>did</em> say he should exuberate more confidence, and frankly, his self-evaluation hinted he did an adequate job out of it -- but the what-ifs persisted.</p><p>Hm. Maybe it really was about time he made the move. He had gotten an idea earlier. He sent a quick message to John on his phone to meet him on the back porch in five minutes. In the meantime, he’ll go and consult the mirror in order to rack up his confidence levels. Who else could persuade him to believe in himself if not ‘him’? He needed the reflection to flatter him. Selfish? Probably. But was it needed? Desperately. </p><p>Receiving a text from John agreeing to meet him in the back, he stuffed the phone in his back pocket and aimed his way to the bathroom on the ground floor. </p><p>His reflection was already awaiting him, pacing in its frame, impatient. </p><p>“What took you so long?” it said, glowering at him. “I tried to get your attention for half an hour!”</p><p>“I was under the impression that I was confident enough,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. </p><p>“You’re still quite unsure. John picked up on it.”</p><p>That alarmed Sherlock. “Did he?! B-but… I didn’t pick up on the clues! Up til now it was just my wondering, but did he?”</p><p>His reflection shrugged. “A little. Nothing daunting. But his aura is getting twitchy. You really have to step up your game, dude.”</p><p>“Well, I assumed you could be of assistance,” Sherlock stepped forward, tiptoeing in front of the glittering silver surface. His mirror self grinned, greyish eyes twinkling. </p><p>“I thought you’d never ask,” the mirror said dreamily. “Okay, you need to hype up, man. Do you know what I noticed? That John really likes you.”</p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p>“Yes, and he also likes when you play the bold one. Actually, most people like a bit of self-assured dominance. So, who are you?”</p><p>“Sherlock Holmes?”</p><p>“Unsure about your name? Again, with more zeal -- who are you?”</p><p>“Sherlock Holmes!”</p><p>“That’s more like it! And who do we like?”</p><p>“John Watson!”</p><p>“Precisely! And what will we do?”</p><p>“Uhm… I don’t know?”</p><p>“Woo John Watson using indestructible self-esteem and confidence and seduction!”</p><p>“Alright!” Sherlock said, feeling his heart rate increase with determination. “Alright. That… that makes sense.”</p><p>His mirror self gave him a proud smile. “Hey, you see? You know it. Therefore, you can do it,” it said, wiggling an eyebrow suggestively. “Or would you like me to do it for you?”</p><p>“As if that’s possible,” Sherlock huffed a laugh, his reflection smiling slyly as well. Something in the back of his mind warned him, but he ignored it. Better focus on John now. It was their date, and he kept overthinking things like an average idiot. Unacceptable. </p><p>“Yeah, sad life I have, huh?” the mirror said, giving him a lopsided smile. “Now, give me a highfive you madlad!”</p><p>“Won’t it… shatter you?” Sherlock looked puzzled, withdrawing his hand raised in eagerness. </p><p>“No, I’m pretty durable,” the reflection said, knocking on the frame. “Takes more than a ‘five to get me. Now come one! You’ve come so far, dude!”</p><p>Sherlock nodded, lips tilted upwards, and he made to reach his reflective hand on the polished surface. Once on it, though, a deathly grip seized him by the fingers, Sherlock’s eyes widening. His reflection tugged him closer, a light tingling spreading over his skin where it passed the membrane of the magical mirror. </p><p>“Actually, I lied,” his reflection said airily, just a hint of mock sorrow in its voice. Sherlock struggled against the hold, failing to pull his hand out. “It will shatter <em>you</em>.”</p><p>These words, combined with the action of pulling Sherlock into the standalone dimension of his mirror self, were enough to spike his panic level to Olympian heights. He fell on his knees, immediately staggering up, but when he got up to spring out into the bathroom, he slammed into an invisible barrier.</p><p>“Wait! What is this? How -- why? What are you doing?”</p><p>He watched as his reflection -- or was he the reflection now? -- dusted off his purple shirt and trousers, smoothing out its hair. The expression Sherlock got was evil, wicked, and a tad pitiful. </p><p>“Sorry, a bit unconventional, huh?” the other <em>him </em>said, shrugging unapologetically. “Honestly, though. Can you be more blind? John’s all over you and yet you still doubt it all. Hah, pathetic. Besides, do you know how boring it is to sit tight, loom behind that veil while I’m <em>covered up</em> in a stinky bathroom? I need to stretch my legs, dude. And you proved to be the perfect lab rat for that. Don’t look so sad, you’ll get used to it after a while. No worries, I’ll make sure John is <em>very </em>happy.”</p><p>“Don’t you <em>dare </em>lay your filthy hands on him,” Sherlock growled, beating on the barrier. He observed the… what, creature? before him. It was an exact copy of him, but parts of him looked almost glittery, as if made of the silver mirror itself, even in ‘reality’. He prayed to whatever deity listened to make John pick up on something unusual. But then again, even ordinary mirrors were deceptive -- what would a magical mirror that switched places with him do? </p><p>God, would it harm John?</p><p>“I won’t do anything to him,” the mirror self said as if reading his thoughts. “I’ll just woo him, date him, maybe marry him, and live happily ever after. I deserve that after years of endless staring at blank walls, don’t you think?”</p><p>“You’ll regret this,” Sherlock said in a warning tone. Struggling against the confines of his silver framed prison. “John will know you’re not me.”</p><p>“Hm, no. I can be very persuasive,” the mirror winked, to Sherlock’s outrage. “Really, you’re exasperating. You could have kissed at least twenty times already. God, wasted opportunity for you, my guy.”</p><p>“Keep using words like ‘my guy’ and ‘dude’ and John will know immediately it’s not me.”</p><p>To prove Sherlock of its abilities, his other self cleared its throat and told him some casual facts about mirrors in his baritone, perfectly British to a fault. Fuck. <em>Fuck</em>. </p><p>The mirror self picked a stray linen from its shirt. It gifted Sherlock a giddy look. “Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the sneakiest of them all? <em>Me</em>.”</p><p>Sherlock’s breathing turned shallow, hopelessness overtaking him, his chest contracting anxiously; the space he was in, an empty, dark platform as opposed to what he saw from the outside, oppressively feeling like it was closing in on him. One part of him feared that an unknown monster would jump on him from the darkness, but there was only eerie, dull loneliness accompanying him. </p><p>When he turned to face his reality again, the other Sherlock was walking towards the door, aiming it for the back porch. It started whistling a cheerful tune, not sparing him a second glance. </p><p>“Ta-ta, Sherlock.”</p><p>No no no no NO. There had to be a way out. There must be!</p><p>Sherlock turned to face the blackness surrounding him, breaths shaky, limbs twitching, his whole being on edge. His own gasps startled him, tricking his mind into thinking he wasn’t alone in this strange dimension. </p><p>How could he have allowed this to happen? He should’ve been more observant, more skeptical. Why was he so gullible tonight? He let himself believe whatever the mirror said, when it was obviously just mollycoddling to achieve its own ploys by throwing him off-guard. And now John might be in danger because of him!</p><p>He cursed himself, tearing at his hair as he racked his Mind Palace about all available information he stored away about mirrors. The quick Google search was his only source of facts, revealing nothing practical. But then again, he guessed not a majority of people would search for ‘<em>Help, a mirror tricked me and now I’m stuck behind a looking-glass while my reflection is attempting to woo the man I love, what do I do Uncle Google?</em>’ results.</p><p>Wait. <em>The reflections</em>. The mirror monster had snuck around, spying on him while being reflected on other surfaces. He pressed his cheek against the invisible surface, eyes narrowed to find a way out of this tomfuckery. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure how he would go about it, but he had to try. </p><p>On his right he saw another mirror, albeit considerably smaller in size compared to his current prison. Sherlock concentrated. He fixed his gaze on the opposite surface with diligent focus, the kind he saved for his experiments (and John, on occasion). Surprisingly, he felt a tingle swim and course through his veins, the sensation the very same he experienced when the mirror switched places. </p><p>Palms pressed on the barrier, he shut his eyelids and pushed into the barrier in sync with his exhalation. It was as though styrofoam embalmed him, something soft and cool brushing his body, a feathered touch against his body. Sherlock snapped his eyes open, stunned for a moment. It worked! He was looking at himself from across the room, hanging above the ground in a round, grimy mirror. The background inside stayed the same -- cold and dark, but Sherlock spared it no thought as he scanned his options. </p><p>A look at his hands told him one thing, however. The skin was paler, but not sickly, more transparent than anything. The mirror wasn’t joking when it said that the reflections get weaker the further away from the source it were. This, him being just the beginning minor reflection of his original body trapped in the big rectangular frame, was alright as far as feelings went. With enough luck, he’ll find a way to the back porch -- there were two windows stationed there, plus a glass lamp that burned brightly, the only source of light in the back. He can’t let the mirror get into John’s head or endanger him further. </p><p>Sherlock exhaled through his mouth, locking eyes to a shiny metal decoration dangling next to the doors leading to the neighbouring room. Determination sparked up inside him. </p><p>
  <em>We’ll see who gets shattered in the end.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Have some cliffhanger/minor angst for Valentine's &lt;3<br/>The sweet, sweet resolution is coming, and will be here on the Saturday of the 20th<br/>I hope you're doing good! &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 14.2.2021<br/>Word count: 4643<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Minor Reflections V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which it happened</p><p>episode 7, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the grand finale of this episode and the weet resolution is here!<br/>thank you for reading and enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and my friend Panda for sending me an adorable letter from Romania &lt;3</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John leaned on his elbows, the wooden railing bearing the weight without complaint. The night air was chilly, but there was no relief to his lungs as there were still remains of the humid, hot weather from the last two weeks. However, he was pleased to see that wind was picking up, sneaking into the crowns of trees and shaking them up. The sky darkened further. A storm was coming at last. </p><p>He fidgeted with his phone, android in design, tapping on the case in an unknown rhythm. Sherlock said he’ll be here shortly. Good thing that he suggested the back porch. At least here they were subdued to some privacy, finally. They could go for a walk, too, and conclude the date night when it’s just the two of them. Or dance to the music that blasted in the Shack still, out on the grass and alone. Yeah, that would be nice. </p><p>The doors opened and closed, steps treading lightly on the floorboards. A hand touched his shoulder, prompting him to twist and look at Sherlock. Corners of his mouth quirked up but froze when he took a look at his date. </p><p>There were several things that confused him. </p><p>First, Sherlock was bright and glowing. Actually, he always had been, that boy had a skin care routine better than Irene -- there was nothing off visibly, but something striked John as odd and out of place. As if he were looking at a high resolution picture.</p><p>“Hi,” he said, suspicion arising in his gut. Sherlock gave him a smile unlike any he had seen from him -- too… hungry, if he were to be honest. John’s stomach twisted. Something was wrong. “Everything alright?”</p><p>“Of course,” Sherlock said in his typical, aloof voice. He was relaxed, more than when he scurried off from the party room. That should be good. “And you? I thought it was about time we went somewhere else.”</p><p>“I’m fine. Yeah, I thought so too, it was getting a bit overwhelming.”</p><p>John watched Sherlock carefully, assessing him cautiously. His body language seemed different, more open and confident. Not that it was bad, but the demeanor changed so suddenly from the one Sherlock showed throughout the night -- a little shy, unsure of his small gestures and touches and mindful -- that John seriously contemplated whether he either got high, or hit his head. </p><p>And then, when Sherlock’s and his eyes locked, he knew his gut feeling was right. The faint hint of silver-grey in those blue and green irises, that’s what irked him. Were John less observant than Sherlock gave him credit for, he would brush it off and think his eyes always had that colour. Truth was, he found himself staring into those eyes quite often recently, even doing as much as stealing glances at them while Sherlock was focused on different tasks at hand, lost in the seas those eyes carried. And so, he knew that silver wasn’t a fucking part of Sherlock’s colour scheme. </p><p>“Problem?” Sherlock purred, arching an eyebrow playfully. </p><p>“Yeah,” said John, itching back and crossing his arms. “Where the fuck is Sherlock?”</p><p>“I’m here, John,” ‘Sherlock’ said, sighing. “Really, I think you’re getting slow.”</p><p>“Right. Right, why not, but I sure as fuck know how Sherlock looks like, and you’re not him. Where. Is. Sherlock.”</p><p>“Stop being paranoid,” Sherlock-not-Sherlock brushed him off, stepping closer into John’s personal space. Shivers ran down his spine. ‘Don’t be paranoid’ -- same thing that Mary had told him when they were dating and something bothered him. This definitely wasn’t his Sherlock. “I am here, and so are you. Don’t you want to get on with our date?”</p><p>“I’d like to as soon as you tell me what happened to my <em>real </em>Sherlock,” John said stubbornly, standing his ground. The impostor regarded him with a <em>look</em>, too close to Sherlock’s casual ‘you’re being an idiot’ glare. </p><p>“John, you know I loathe repeating myself,” he rolled his eyes, leaning his hip on the railing. “What’s gotten into you? I thought you were enjoying yourself.”</p><p>“I was,” John sighed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. <em>Was </em>he being paranoid? No, of course not; he had spent enough time in the company of the crazy, insane, adorable guy to know when it is him and when it’s not. Two weeks may downplay the claim, but he had always felt like they had known each other for <em>years</em>, so he wasn’t going to let this slide. </p><p>Out of the corner of his eyes, he registered a movement. He glanced sideways, not dropping his guard down. If Sherlock had been experimenting with the journal again without letting John know beforehand, this could be dangerous. </p><p>‘Sherlock’ next to him followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes as he saw something John apparently missed. “Can you excuse me for a moment? I’ll explain everything in a bit, just…”</p><p>He trailed off, pacing inside the Shack, slamming the doors behind him. John was unsure of what to do. The impostor saw something, but where? John scanned everything on the porch; the floor, the walls, the railing, the windows…. Oh shit. </p><p>Despite Sherlock’s look-alike’s absence, there was a very faint silhouette of him in the glass stained window, waving its hands around wildly. </p><p>“Sherlock?” John gaped, rushing closer. It was him, clearly distressed and talking, but not a word was audible. “Sherlock, where are you? What happened?” The silhouette pointed to John’s left, gesturing towards the museum part of the house. John needed nothing more to spring into action. </p><p>The back doors burst open as he rushed inside towards the room full of exhibits to find the impostor tallying it to the nearest bathroom to glare at a tall mirror where… Sherlock stood? What? How?</p><p>“John!” Sherlock from the mirror said, relief in his voice shattering John one piece at a time. What the hell happened here? “You’ve got to get me out of here!”</p><p>“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked, the sight of Sherlock rolling his eyes comforting him, as alarming as it should be. </p><p>“Oh, hello, John,” the imposter greeted from the side, calm and collected. John shot him a glare. “Don’t be angry, I told you I’ll be back shortly. A bit of an inconvenience, seeing Sherlock here, though. Not for long.”</p><p>“Care to explain how Sherlock ended up in a mirror?” John said, carefully walking closer. He had zero idea what he was up against. Where was his shovel when he needed it? Or the baseball bat? </p><p>“Eh, he was easy to trick,” the impostor said nonchalantly, casting Sherlock a thoughtful look. It was creepy how they were each other’s reflections and yet they weren’t aligned. Wait, didn’t that happen in some horror film too? “I kept telling him how he should be more confident and he still screwed up, so I decided to take my chance and show him how it’s done.”</p><p>“By trapping him in a mirror and taking his place?” John’s brows narrowed, frown lines deepening on his forehead. “Tell me how exactly you planned to go about your -- his -- life, acting like you’re him?”</p><p>“I’m a mirror, it’s natural to take on the characteristics.”</p><p>“Natural my ass! Do you honestly think I wouldn’t notice? You could never be Sherlock, he’s far too unique for anyone to pretend to be him.”</p><p>“Perhaps. But I am too bored to bother caring about that. Maybe I’ll just run and leave you two to it, since I can see you’re not so interested in a relationship anymore.”</p><p>“Not with an imposter, no,” John agreed, glancing at Sherlock who watched the argument with keen interest. It was worrisome to see him be quiet for so long during confrontations, especially those revolving around him. He gave John a weak smile, barely a quirk of lips. </p><p>“Eh, I tried. Well, I should get this over with, then,” the mirror person said, John only now noticing that it held a small rock in its hand, stolen from Greg’s collection on a shelf nearby. </p><p>A number of emotions floated through John. Anger, fear, indescribable anxiety thinking about what that would cause, a mixture that resulted into him surging forwards, tackling the impostor to the ground just as the rock almost left his hand. He heard Sherlock saying something, the words too fast for him to comprehend. Slowly, they came back to him, the other Sherlock under him squirming and wrestling for freedom. John grabbed him by the wrists and pinned them above his head. Under different circumstances, this would be thrilling, being to Sherlock so close -- but this wasn’t <em>him</em>. </p><p>John rolled them over, pinning the impostor face-down with a huff as Sherlock repeated, “John, you’ve got to get him to touch the mirror! He dragged me in when our hands touched!”</p><p>“How did that happen?” John gasped as the impostor pushed into him when his grip loosened. He fell on his back, the other Sherlock darting for the rock. Fortunately, John was quicker and tripped him, causing him to splay on the floor, limbs akimbo. </p><p>“I… Doesn’t matter!” Sherlock said, irritated (and a little ashamed). “Just get him to touch my hand!”</p><p>John obeyed, manhandling the struggling mirror Sherlock to his real one. It proved to be harder than he expected, and avoiding the kicks even more so, but once he finally managed to press the pale hand to its counterpart reflected in the silver surface, it stopped. </p><p>All of a sudden, the impostor stilled in his arms, the mirrored surface wobbling like disturbed water as Sherlock intertwined their fingers together and pulled. Dead weight fell onto John’s lap, tackling him on his back as <em>his </em>Sherlock rammed into him. The rectangular mirror trembled upon their impact, and it toppled over, breaking due to the impostor’s struggles to get out at the last possible chance.</p><p>“Oof! You’re heavy,” John gasped, wrapping his hands around Sherlock. The boy in question propped himself on his elbows, one on ground, one on John’s chest as he stared down at him. </p><p>“Sorry, sorry!” he stuttered, scrambling to his feet, helping John get up in turn. “I’m not particularly used to changing dimensions.”</p><p>That made John laugh, hearing Sherlock talk in his usual manner that was just <em>him</em>. “Let’s hope you don’t get to do that often, yeah? I don’t think I want to have a fright like that again.”</p><p>“Oh, aren’t you two sappy,” the mirror said dryly from the shattered pieces around them. When they looked at it, it wasn’t neither’s reflection looking back at them; instead, it was a disfigured misty being spread across the shards, dark holes where its eyes should be watching them. John felt goosebumps prickle at his skin and he instinctively dragged Sherlock closer, shielding him with his own body. “You two are lucky I was out here to assess the situation only. This isn’t the last time you see me, darlings. Just you wait, there’s more sinister shapeshifters willing to trick you to get their own lives back.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, intrigued by the mystical lore he hadn’t gotten to know yet. </p><p>“My lips are sealed,” the mirror said, eyes glowering as it started dissipating inside its frame. “But a day will come when you will be lamenting that I didn’t break this prison while <em>you </em>were still in it to shield you from the wrath that’s inevitable.”</p><p>“Inevitable wrath?” John sniffed, frowning. “Sounds like some Bond villian talk.”</p><p>“You laugh now, but you’ll suffer when my boss  and his minions overtake your world. He’ll burn the hearts out of you.”</p><p>“Alright, that’s enough,” John decided, spotting a sheet with which the mirror must’ve been covered. He put it over his hands so as not to cut himself on the shards and started pushing them to a faraway corner. “You pretty much deserve to be thrown out into trash. Sherlock -- help me?”</p><p>Sherlock nodded, their hands lifting the sheet over the pile of sharp shards, shielding the being within. Why did Greg even own it? Where did he get these things, and how come he never noticed how weird that shit was? First the dolls, then this predatory mirror saying cryptic messages about doomsday….</p><p>It seemed that the destruction of the compact mirror caused the monster in the shard to disappear, for none of the shards reflected any surface or item. Instead, the pieces withered, growing grey. John sighed and glanced at his date. “Sherlock?”</p><p>“Hm? Sorry, just… Sorry.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For ruining our date,” Sherlock said, averting his gaze from John to the floor, shifting his weight on a canted hip. </p><p>“Hey, I won’t have any of that,” John put up a palm, silencing him. “How about we take a walk? We can both use some fresh air, I think.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded mutely and followed John outside. John grabbed his yellow hoodie from where it hung on the rack by the front door; something told him it could come in handy. He led the way to the front yard and on the road that connected to Main Street. It was a narrow walk, spaced out lamps illuminating the deserted path. Music pounded inside as the remnants of the party celebrated, but John and Sherlock ignored it and moved on. </p><p>They walked in silence for a good while when John cleared his throat, shuffling closer to Sherlock. “I meant what I said earlier, Sherlock. Don’t apologise.”</p><p>“But I ruined our date by trailing off to the museum to get dating tips from a mirror that tricked me into switching places and it almost harmed us both because I started doubting what I saw, John,” Sherlock spilled rapidly, gasping for air by the end of the sentence. </p><p>“What? What did you doubt?” John asked, flabbergasted by the confusing new information. “I mean, I can see how choosing a party at the Shack wasn’t the most ideal plan, what with it being crowded and not having that much time to ourselves, so that’s kinda my fault there… We should’ve given it more thought, well, I should have, <em>I </em>asked <em>you </em>out... ”</p><p>“No, I meant… I enjoyed the time with you, of course I did. I always do,” Sherlock said quietly, looking at his feet. Left, right, left, right. “But yes, the interruptions were inconvenient. You said yourself that we can make up our own rules for the first date. I didn’t mind the party; I was happy to see Irene perform, and to scam that prat who dissed Kate’s decorations.”</p><p>“Yeah, I liked that too,” John agreed, a smile spreading across his face at the memory, the fifty bucks safely tucked in his pocket. “I loved your deductions. Actually used the knowledge a little to confirm the mirror wasn’t you. I got a whiff of it the moment I lay my eyes on him, in fact.”</p><p>“I’ve been a fool to trust it,” Sherlock said bitterly, digging his hands in his pockets angrily. He gave John a fleeting glance before following his steps again. “But I knew you would see through it.”</p><p>“Well, a genius once told me I’m not actually an ordinary idiot,” John said airily, bumping into Sherlock. That made him smile. John considered it a personal victory. “Of course I would know. It’s as I said; you’re unique.”</p><p>“That’s… Thank you…?”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” John said cheekily, and they stepped into another short passage of darkness before reappearing under a circle of light of yet another lamp. Twelfth. John counted. “How did you come across the mirror in the first place? And why take dating tips from it?”</p><p>“I don’t know! I panicked!” Sherlock gritted through his teeth, as if the plain idea of confessing this made him sick. None of the anger was directed at John, though. “It happened when I went to deposit the money to the gift shop. I crossed the museum, and it sort of… called to me. So, I did the logical thing and uncovered it, checked my hair, and it started talking to me.”</p><p>“I don’t remember anything written in the journal about such a talking mirror,” John frowned, unrolling his sleeves as it became quite cold. He put on his hoodie. “Damnit, Sherlock. Just as I told you to be more careful about the supernatural.”</p><p>“You’re right, there is nothing regarding magical mirrors in the third journal,” Sherlock sniffed, annoyed. “I remember what you said, but it got me at my most vulnerable. I… I’ve never done this before. Dating, relationships. I’ve told you that. You’re too valuable for me to screw this up. I was hesitant when Irene brought it to my attention repeatedly that you reciprocate, and I still can’t believe it, despite the evidence. No one ever made the effort to get to know me like you do. And so, I took crap tips that only threw me off from a magical mirror who tried to take my identity.”</p><p>The last part was said with forced cheerfulness. But what got John more was learning that Sherlock’s insecurities were so deep-rooted and so persistent. Of course, he had caught snippets of dialogues between Sherlock and his sister, but he didn’t want to pry and invade Sherlock’s privacy. </p><p>“Sherlock, you won’t have to worry about me not reciprocating,” John said seriously, looking at him intently. He put a hand on his arm, stopping under a lamp with warm, orange light. Tiny insects crossed the barrier of light, moths circling around the light bulb, pursuing the attractive source of illumination. John found himself being similarly pulled to Sherlock. “Hey, remember our debate back at Angelo’s? Yeah, my point still stands. I do feel like I already know the whole of you, and strangely, that made this date easy. If you can call it a date.”</p><p>“It was <em>our</em> date,” Sherlock said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “It seems that supernatural elements will always etch themselves into it, though.”</p><p>“Not that I mind,” said John, stepping closer, “but I could do without body snatchers.”</p><p>“Tell me about it,” huffed Sherlock, wind ruffling his curls to his left side. Unkempt like this, he looked adorable. “‘Typical and normal’ is boring. This is more our style.”</p><p>“Yep,” John beamed, looking at Sherlock’s lips, then his eyes. Those beautiful, green and blue, blue and green eyes, and one little speck of honey-brown on the outside of the right iris. “So, let us get this straight, because we’re not.” Sherlock snorted at the remark. “You liked the date?”</p><p>“Yes. Moreover, you’ve got to save me like a knight in shining armour.”</p><p>“You give me too much credit. Well, I liked it too. A lot. Especially the dancing. And you.” </p><p>“Yes, you’re not as bad as you think. You just need more practice,” Sherlock said, ducking his head to hide his shy smirk and pink blush. </p><p>“Only if you teach me,” John wiggled his eyebrows in a challenging manner, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. </p><p>“Are we going to get interrupted again during our lessons?” Sherlock said, inching a bit closer. </p><p>“For their sake, I hope not,” John shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “Otherwise we’ll just nick their wallet as compensation for the intrusion, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Hm. It occurs to me that we have begun something earlier which we haven’t finished precisely because of that,” Sherlock looked at John’s mouth and back at his eyes. </p><p>“We should probably finish it,” John said, licking his lips once, his stomach fluttering. “If you’d like to, that is.”</p><p>“Very much.” </p><p>They inched closer. Sherlock put his hands around John’s shoulders, slowly and tenderly, as if giving him space to back out. Fuck no. One of John’s hands caught Sherlock on the hip, the other brushing fingertips along Sherlock’s jaw. Millimeters apart, John had never felt so thrilled and pleased. </p><p>Just as they were about to kiss, something cold and wet dropped on the tips of their noses. Sherlock blinked, nose wrinkling distastefully as he looked up. More droplets of water started showering them from the dark sky above, intensifying with each second. </p><p>“I hate my life,” Sherlock groaned, stomping his foot and facepalming. “Or, life hates me.”</p><p>“I think it’s mutual,” John said smugly as he shrugged off his hoodie and wound it around Sherlock, pulling the hood over his soft curls. </p><p>“When did you take it?”</p><p>“What, you didn’t notice?” John laughed, hugging Sherlock. </p><p>“I was distracted,” Sherlock defended himself. “And I still am. That was smart.”</p><p>“I do have my enlightening moments,” John said, taking his chance at surprising Sherlock by grabbing his by the nape of his neck and putting their mouths together. Sherlock hummed, taken aback slightly since he was busy glaring at the offensive droplets of rain, but he quickly melted into the soft and sweet brush of their lip, and here they were, kissing in the rain. </p><p>John saw sparks and fireworks behind his closed eyelids. He had longed for this, wanted this since he laid his eyes on this madman. And it didn’t disappoint in the slightest. He gently opened his mouth, Sherlock mirroring his movements tenderly and chastily. John stood on his toes, leaning into Sherlock whose fingers found their way into John’s damp hair, caressing his scalp. </p><p>Loud thunder reminded them that they were still outside and that a proper storm was coming. In a way, it resembled the tension releasing between the two of them. Finally free of the constraints, anticipation dissipating into action. </p><p>“We should probably head back,” John breathed, lips wet, and not only from the water pouring down. The happiness that soared through him was enough to warm him up despite the increasing wind and rain. His shirt was getting soaked through. A lightning illuminated the sky for a brief second, thunder following suit, if with a little delay. </p><p>“Let’s,” Sherlock panted, nuzzling into John’s hair above his left ear. John hugged him closer, burrowing his head into his shoulder, hand drawing lazy circles on his back. They stood like that for a while until another lightning urged them to set out to the Shack. </p><p>“Take it, I don’t want your shirt to get wet,” John told Sherlock when he started to take off the yellow hoodie.</p><p>“But that means yours will,” Sherlock argued, clenching the hoodie closer around his shoulders.</p><p>“Mine cost ten bucks at a second-hand shop, I’ll survive. Yours looks more expensive and I really, <em>really</em> like it.”</p><p>“Irene bought it,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.</p><p>“One more reason to keep it unharmed. Can’t have a fashion student find it soaking wet; I’d rather live to see another day.”</p><p>“John, it’s unnecessary…”</p><p>“I’m trying to be a gentleman here,” John said, squinting at Sherlock, shoving the hoodie back when he outstretched it for John to take. The rain kept strengthening. “Take the damn hoodie, Sherlock Holmes! And put on the hood, too!”</p><p>Sherlock obeyed, raised eyebrows betraying his pleasure at the prospect of wearing something that belonged to John. Not gonna lie, the idea had its merits. “Chivalry indeed isn’t dead,” he murmured, zipping up the hoodie. It suited him perfectly. John preferred to wear oversized hoodies for comfort, which now proved to be of good use. </p><p>“You did say I came to save you like a knight in shining armour. A poor one, ‘cause I don’t have a horse, but still --” the rest of his sentence was swallowed by Sherlock’s insistent lips, John’s grip on his waist tightening. It was just a tease, before Sherlock rolled his shoulders back, ready to hurry back into the warmth of the Shack. </p><p>“As my Knight, you should ensure my safety on our way back,” Sherlock suggested, looking him over. </p><p>“I have a better idea,” John said, shivers running down his spine as large raindrops bombarded him endlessly like bullets. “We race back. Loser pays for food on our second date!”</p><p>He took off as he was saying it, gaining a few meters on Sherlock. The lanky bastard was fast, however, and caught up with John easily enough. What Sherlock didn’t know, though, was that John had taken up jogging during his university year, and had both the stamina and leg muscles to keep up with him. </p><p>Two cars passed them on their run through the rain; John recognised Mike’s mom’s minivan and Mrs Hudson’s pickup truck, but neither had slowed down. The rain was getting stronger by the minute still. </p><p>Sherlock and John were panting by the time the Shack appeared as a dark silhouette in the dark, only the faint wall lamp indicating where the doors were. Ten meters away, John put his everything to outrun Sherlock, stomping up the porch in one long jump and crashing spectacularly into the doors, flinging them open at once. He fell on his knees, giggling like an idiot when Sherlock bumped into him full force -- they were both close to the entrance. </p><p>Giggles transformed into laughter, mud and water soaking into the floorboards below John. Sherlock was sprawled half on top of him, and when their eyes met, he dipped his head and kissed John again. Because he could. </p><p>“Took you long enough,” Greg’s voice cut in through the kissing session. Granted, they did just barge into the house like a pair of cannonballs, but dammit! Couldn’t he just skiddaddle out of there silently? </p><p>John and Sherlock exchanged a fed up glance and glared at him simultaneously from where they were now sitting on the floor. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Your timing is, as always, horrid, Lestrade,” Sherlock clipped, standing up. He held out a hand for John, who accepted it and shut the doors close. No need to flood the house. </p><p>“You’re the ones who danced around each other for three weeks like wounded animals,” Greg said, though his expression was smug and delighted. He looked John over head to toes, raising an eyebrow. “You should get changed or you’ll catch a cold.”</p><p>“I know,” John rolled his eyes, passing by him with a wet pat on the shoulder. “Future doctor, remember?”</p><p>“Doctors make the worst patients,” Greg argued, smiling knowingly. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m happy for you both.”</p><p>“If you’re going to give me The Talk, Lestrade...” Sherlock started, but was silenced by Greg’s shake of his head. </p><p>“I don’t need to,” he said, crossing the hall to stomp upstairs to his room. “You’re both intelligent adults, and absolutely besotted. I don’t have to worry about either of you.” He disappeared with a wishing of goodnight, leaving dumbfounded Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs. </p><p>“That was nice,” John concluded. He was glad to see that his hoodie suffered most of the damage, and then Sherlock’s trousers (which hugged his legs most delightfully…. okay, time to stop thirsting) and shoes. Sherlock shrugged the hoodie off, holding it with the tips of his finger as if the sensation of wet fabric appalled him. “Told you. Glad to have taken it, aren’t you?”</p><p>Sherlock nodded and treaded on the stairs, tugging at John’s wet sleeve as he ascended them. “Quite. Now go and get changed, I don’t want to catch a cold from kissing you.”</p><p>“And here I thought you liked taking risks,” John teased, only to find himself being manhandled on the next step and kissed again. Not that he complained. “Mhm. But really, I should go change. It’s only half past eleven, wanna do something else when we get into pyjamas?”</p><p>“Do you realise how suggestive that sounds?” Sherlock chuckled, amused as John ducked his head in embarrassment. </p><p>“Christ, I blame Irene,” he muttered. “But no, I didn’t mean that. I’d like to go… slow. Not push anything. If… that’s alright with you.”</p><p>“I’m thinking the same,” Sherlock agreed, smiling shyly as John pressed a light kiss on his nose. “Does this mean we’re….” He trailed off, hissing in annoyance as skittishness overcame him. </p><p>“Boyfriends?” John supplied. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled at the term, but he nodded. “Yeah, I suppose so, if that’s what you want to go by.” </p><p>“Boyfriend is fine, as far as terms go,” Sherlock shrugged, walking them up the stairs once more. “Now go and dry yourself off so I can have a shower.”</p><p>“Bossy,” John smirked and kissed him once more before they parted ways. He grabbed his pyjama bottoms and a plain grey t-shirt, plus a dry pair of underwear. One quick shower later, he put the fresh clothes on, feeling rejuvenated. Who wouldn’t after kissing Sherlock Holmes? </p><p>He heard loud, angry thumping down from the attic room and a bang of the doors, then a distant, muffled laughter. Oh. He had almost forgotten about Irene’s sleepover. He probably should’ve warned Sherlock. </p><p>John opened the bathroom doors and peered out to see Sherlock sulkily leaning against the wall opposite. “Sorry,” John said, “forgot to mention Irene has new friends over.”</p><p>“Vile creatures, the lot of them,” Sherlock sniffed, switching in the bathroom with John. </p><p>John shook his head at his <em>boyfriend’s </em>antics and went to spread his wet clothes on his chair and wardrobe door. Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with fog at his heels and his curls smelling of lavender. John walked over and hugged him, just because he was allowed to do so freely now. Sherlock’s hands rested on his back, soothing and anchoring. </p><p>Since they were banished from the attic room and John’s room served as a drying rack, they decided to go to the living room. It was also close to the kitchen to fetch snacks. There were lots of leftovers from the party still, and both of them were hungry after dealing with the supernatural and running from a storm. </p><p>Sherlock brought the journal, and John decided to fill in the current information they had of the mirror in the museum. As always, it was fascinating to see Sherlock so engulfed in the details, his passion for knowledge and uncovering the unknown enchanting John to swallow every single one of his words. He really was besotted. </p><p>He jotted down everything important, arranging it neatly across two yellowish pages in the leather-bound book. Once done with, Sherlock slumped on the sofa, shoulders touching John’s. He hesitated before John explicitly told him that, ‘Yes, you can rest your head on my arm, or wherever,’ and then happily obliged. John listed through the journal, one arm hugging Sherlock around the shoulders, humming when Sherlock added a note or two of his own deductions when a particularly interesting phenomenon or creature appeared on a page. </p><p>They talked and talked into the wee hours of the morning, the storm still going strong. At one point during the night, the power went out. The suddenness took Sherlock by surprise, startling him momentarily before John wrapped his arm around him once more, dragging him closer, planting a kiss on his curls. The lavender smell suited Sherlock. </p><p>And later, when they had finally fallen asleep in each other’s arms on the couch, knackered to the bones, Greg snuck downstairs to check on them. Don’t tell them that he peeped over the doorframe, taken by the cute sight. Don’t tell them that he definitely did take a picture of his boys that morning to show to Mrs Hudson and later Angelo as well. </p><p>It showed Sherlock lying on top of John, hands dug under him, their legs intertwined and mouths slightly agape, snoring softly. </p><p>And don’t tell them that he definitely did have that picture set as John’s contact picture in his phone.</p><p>Don’t tell them. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:)<br/>johnlock is officially AU canon :')</p><p>Updated: 20.2. 2021<br/>Word count: 5243<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. National Treasure-Trove I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which it rains some more</p>
<p>episode 8, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HIIII! NEW EPISODE IS AND JOHNLOCK IS CANON IN OUR AU-VERSE, WE'RE HAPPY<br/>with that in mind, enjoy - it's only going to get gayer from here, I promise &gt;:3 *waits for the spn ship to drop*<br/>thank you for reading and enjoy~<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and my water bottle that keeps me hydrated</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John woke up gradually, as if resurfacing from a deep dive in the ocean. As the last bits of his now incomprehensible dream dissipated, he moved a hand to rub his face only to discover that a mop of curls rested on his shoulder. He ran his fingers through them carefully, smiling to himself. </p>
<p>Sherlock stirred and smacked his lips, but he didn’t wake up. If anything, he tucked in closer to John’s side. The arm wrapped around John’s chest tightened for a second, then relaxed again. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple and arched his neck to see where his phone was. It rested on the coffee table, a little off-bounds and out of John’s reach, but with enough mindful extrication so as not to wake up Sherlock he managed to get a hold of it. </p>
<p>6:41</p>
<p>He slept for about four and a half hours. He put the phone down and tried to drift off to Dreamlandia, though, truth be told, he considered ‘dreamland’ to be wherever it was with Sherlock by his side. Which was now. He could die in peace, sporting a gorgeous boyfriend like that. </p>
<p>Muffled clatter from the kitchen roused him from his thoughts intrusively. He glared in its general direction through the slits of his eyelids, vision blurred by residues of sleep. He needed to drink some water; his mouth was dry. And then he needed to use the bathroom.</p>
<p>As slowly as possible, he began removing himself from Sherlock’s warm and inviting embrace, muttering sweet nothings in the attempt to let Sherlock sleep longer. It worked! John crouched in front of the couch, sliding his arm from under his boyfriend’s side and he stood up. Aw. Sherlock looked adorable, sleeping so peacefully. </p>
<p>Grateful that yesterday wasn’t a mere fever dream, John walked to the kitchen where his grunkle poured himself some fresh coffee. Two slices of toast popped up from the toaster and Greg grabbed them mid-air while cursing that it burned his fingers. He dropped the slices on the counter, shoving his hand under cold running water. </p>
<p>“You’re going to wake everyone up,” John croaked, clearing his sleepy throat. Greg glanced at him, the smirk on his face unmistakable. “What?”</p>
<p>“Nothin’,” Greg shrugged, picking up a fork and stabbing the toasted bread slices before putting them on a plate. “You’re just a sight to look at, is all.”</p>
<p>John’s eyeballs did a barrel roll. “Stop being so smug, you have no right after being such a cockblock. Make me a toast.”</p>
<p>“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the couch,” Greg snickered, plopping two more slices in the toaster. John flicked his ear as he passed him to fetch himself a glass of water, getting one in return. John glared, shoving a middle finger up his grunkle’s face only to have it smacked down, so he resorted for a light kick in the shins, which Greg promptly blocked. </p>
<p>John spilled water on himself as Greg backed him up against the counter with a playful shove. His nephew set the glass aside and stuck his tongue out at him. “Cry me a table, Linda,” John said, enjoying the confused look on Greg’s face. </p>
<p>“That’s not… Oi, fuck off with your internet lingo,” Greg frowned, swiping his forearm across the table to clear it off of useless papers and empty wrappers. He set his plate of plain toast down and yawned. “Pass the butter.”</p>
<p>“Say please,” John said, plating his own bread. He could practically hear Greg’s eyeroll. </p>
<p>“My dearest great-great-great nephew thrice-or-so removed,” Greg sighed aggravatedly, “will you, oh please, for the love of the hungriest of fucks, pass me the butter?”</p>
<p>“Of course, grunkle,” John gave him the warmest morning smile and fluttering eyelashes and ducked in the fridge to retrieve a stick of unsalted butter and blueberry jam. He tossed it on the table, grimacing as the butter sploshed on the wooden surface with a squirt. “Ew. Where did you buy this? It’s like half-rotten guts.”</p>
<p>“<em>Bon appetit</em>, John,” Greg coughed, smearing the oily butter on top of his toast. John dumped a few spoons of the jam on his own, pressing the two slices together. “Sherlock still asleep?”</p>
<p>“Yep. Dead as a log. We need to buy more of this jam.”</p>
<p>“It’s expensive.”</p>
<p>“So?”</p>
<p>“Christ, fine. Why this one? I liked the apricot jam and you hated it.”</p>
<p>“It was way too sweet. I got cavities just smelling it,” John said with full mouth, spitting a few crumbs on the table. Greg pointedly stared at him until he cleaned it up. Raindrops hypnotically drummed on the window panes and roof of the house outside. </p>
<p>“Eh, tastes differ. We can stop by a seven-eleven when we go to town.”</p>
<p>“You want to go out in this weather?”</p>
<p>“Need to buy a new TV,” Greg grumbled, grimacing at the memory of his outburst watching the Justinkopnik drama. “Fortunately, I had the last one insured. So I don’t have to raid my savings just yet.”</p>
<p>John propped his chin on his hand and batted his eyelashes. “Your TV had an insurance in case you chugged it out of the window.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. Knowing Greg, this was normal to expect. He wondered what insurance he had on the fridge. Or on that weird stuffed animal, half-chicken, half-ferret that stood guard in the second floor corridor, perched just above that crook in the wall near Greg’s bedroom. </p>
<p>“Wasn’t there supposed there be, like, a celebration today?” John asked, finishing his breakfast. He stood up and put the plate into the sink. Greg can wash it. “Something like the Founder’s Day?”</p>
<p>“Yep,” Greg said, rubbing his hands together in an evil fashion. “But! Since the storm raged on all night and it’s still raining cats and dogs, I doubt they are holding it.”</p>
<p>“Hm. The rain is slowly backing off, though. D’you think they’d have it in the afternoon? I heard the O’Learys hired a catering company for the whole day. They probably won’t want it to go to waste.”</p>
<p>Greg snorted derisively. “The O’Learys don’t give a fuck about wasting money or food. All they care about is the prestige. I dunno. Maybe they’ll have it. The mayor will readily rent them a room in the city hall once they wave their wallets. Whatever, at least the streets won’t be flooded by people in stupid nineteenth century costumes.”</p>
<p>“True. So when do you want to go?”</p>
<p>“Around two in the afternoon. We can order takeaway, too. Not cooking today.”</p>
<p>“You never cook in the first place,” John huffed, ducking a crumpled newspaper Greg threw at him. “Don’t act like I’m lying! I don’t remember how long ago I saw you hold a pan.”</p>
<p>“<em>‘I don’t remember how long ago I saw you hold a pan!’</em>” Greg mimicked in a high-pitched voice, making John giggle. “You know what? Fine, Mr Fancy-pantsy. I’ll cook something for dinner. I’ll show you my cooking skills even Gordon Ramsay is afraid of.”</p>
<p>“Please don’t insult Gordon Ramsay like that ever again,” Sherlock said from the archway, rubbing his eyes. John could melt at the sight of barely awoken Sherlock anytime. “It’s good to have your level of self-esteem, but this is just absurd.”</p>
<p>“Guess who’s not getting another portion when they realise my food is delicious?” Greg sang, sipping from his mug as he and Sherlock stared at each other. However, during the staring contest Greg took a bigger slurp than he’d anticipated and started choking, breaking the contact while his lungs wheezed to cleanse themselves of caffeine. “Fuck’s sake. Disgusting.”</p>
<p>“That’s the wrath of Gordon Ramsay,” John deadpanned and Sherlock smirked, depositing his stature to the table, plopping down dramatically. He fleetingly glanced at John, the softness in his eyes betraying his put-up front of grumpiness. John waved at him from where he stood by the counter and got to making him toast. “Also, you should stop smoking, Greg. Those things’ll kill you. You’re already out of breath after walking up the stairs.”</p>
<p>“Can’t wait,” Greg murmured, filling in brackets in a crossword. Sherlock observed his fast scribbling with his chin leaning on his open palm, bored. As the toast popped up, crispy and hot, Greg stood up and stretched his arms. He scratched the nape of his neck and opened the window. “Well. I’m going to count the cash and then I’ll restock the gift shop. You guys be ready to leave at two.”</p>
<p>“Leave where?” Sherlock asked, shooting John a quizzical glance when he put toast on a plate in front of him. “Oh. Thank you?”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome,” John smiled and planted a kiss on his curls. Sherlock squirmed, pink dots painting his cheeks adorably. “Eat up. Mrs Hudson will strangle you if you don’t.”</p>
<p>“Mrs Hudson has the day off,” Sherlock countered, but he picked up a butter knife to spread some of the questionable dairy product on the bread. He seemed to have noticed its strangeness, sniffing at the food and promptly putting it down. “This is ridiculous. I miss European butter. What is up with these sticks of butter on this continent? Where are solid blocks of it? Damn. Ooh, blueberry jam?”</p>
<p>“I like this one,” John said, silently delighted at the way Sherlock criticized American butter. True, this one was an off-brand rip-off of another brand that ripped off a brand that stole recipes from yet another, completely unrelated brand that had nothing to do with butter, but still. “How did you sleep?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s lip curled up. “Quite well. I had a good pillow. It escaped, though.”</p>
<p>“That’s unfortunate,” John said, watching Sherlock lick crumbs off his lips. “I wouldn’t mind sacrificing myself for the comfort.”</p>
<p>“I’m aware,” Sherlock said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, what was Lestrade talking about? Where are we going today?”</p>
<p>“Fancy a lazy day at home?” John wiggled his eyebrows and stood up only to lean on Sherlock’s corner of the table. “He wants to buy a new TV. And I want to buy more of this delicious jam. You want coffee or tea?”</p>
<p>“Coffee,” Sherlock said, shyly raising his hand but stopping mid-air. He averted his gaze and drummed his fingers on the table. “Black--”</p>
<p>“Four sugars, I know,” John said, eyes smiling at his boyfriend. The word sounded delightful both in his mind and on his tongue. Sherlock returned his smile, scratching at his temple. “Milk?” A nod.</p>
<p>John fumbled in the cupboards to find two mugs. He usually skipped coffee due to his dirty secret of readily becoming addicted to the rich, delicious liquid substance, but this one time wouldn’t hurt. Once the water boiled he poured it in the mugs: one with a picture of a llama farting rainbows and the other having silhouettes of cats all over it -- his personal favourite. </p>
<p>“I’ll go and brush my teeth,” he said, spooning sugar into the llama mug. He reached over to grab milk from the fridge. “I dunno, we can go to my room. I don’t suppose Irene or her friends are awake yet. And I don’t particularly want to loom in the living room with Greg being all smug.”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Should I bring the coffee upstairs?”</p>
<p>“Sure, just don’t spill it.”</p>
<p>John winked and left, treading up the stairs quietly. He slipped into his room, opening the window for air to circulate and refresh, seeing as the raining somewhat subsided and steadied. His clothes from yesterday’s jog in the storm were still damp, but nothing tragic. He took it to the bathroom with him and tossed it in the laundry bin. Brushing his teeth was a quick but thorough affair, plus he made sure to spray himself with a deodorant. He changed into black sweatpants and a blue t-shirt he stole years ago from Greg. Comfort was what he lived for. </p>
<p>In his room, Sherlock was perched on the edge of his bed, timidly as if afraid of being unwelcome. The two coffee mugs sat atop John’s desk opposite, steaming hot. </p>
<p>“Interesting design,” Sherlock said, looking at the cups hazily. He yawned into a balled fist and rubbed his cheeks. </p>
<p>“Bought it two years ago for Christmas,” John said, peeking out the window and outstretching his hand to catch a few raindrops. “Although Greg sometimes drinks the coffee out of the machine jug itself, so the llama cup isn’t used that much.”</p>
<p>“Remind me to never pour myself anything from the coffee machine ever again.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, his scammery isn’t contagious.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure? Your acquisition of Ulysses Grant suggests otherwise,” Sherlock chuckled and took the liberty of lying on his side, propper on his elbow while John took to his desk chair. </p>
<p>“That was a joint effort, my dear detective,” John said and used the toes on his foot to open a drawer and grab a pair of socks. A feat he perfected since he was ten years old. When he looked up, Sherlock was dozing with eyes closed. The house was silent except for the constant rhythm of rain outside moisturizing the dry land. </p>
<p>John got lost in the sight of Sherlock. The curls falling in his face, the tiny wrinkles on his nose that twitched involuntarily as his hair brushed over it, everything about him was perfect. Yes, he was sappy, but that was the point, wasn’t it? He was now a full time Boyfriend™, he had the right to be sappier than usual. </p>
<p>“You’re grinning like an idiot, John,” Sherlock mumbled, snapping him out of his reverie. He had only now realised that Sherlock was watching him, eyebrows raised high in amusement. </p>
<p>“I’m dating and looking at the most brilliant and handsome man alive, are you surprised?”</p>
<p>Sherlock blushed. He sat up and scratched the back of his head. “I… Likewise? It’s mutual, that’s what I’m trying to say.”</p>
<p>“Aw, that’s adorable,” John tutted, propping his elbows on his knees and putting his face in his large palms. Sherlock glared. “You’re at loss for words. Unheard of.”</p>
<p>“It’s barely seven, my brain hasn’t recalibrated yet. And I’m <em>not</em> adorable,” he said, crossing his arms disapprovingly. That proved to be a contradictory statement, seeing as fussing made him even more adorable as he pouted. </p>
<p>“Yes you are.”</p>
<p>“I’m not!”</p>
<p>“Sure thing, sugar,” John winked, laughing hysterically as Sherlock froze, mouth agape at the unexpected pet name. “Oh my God, have I succeeded at stupefying the smartest guy alive?”</p>
<p>“No,” Sherlock cut, shaking his head as if to get rid of the excess shock. “You did not, I was merely processing the new data of how immaculately ridiculous you’re being trying to sound like a rich white woman from Orange County.”</p>
<p>“Don’t go scientific on me, <em>boyfriend</em>.”</p>
<p>“I’ll get back at you, you -- you--”</p>
<p>“Ha! You don’t have a pet name for me yet,” John grinned scuttling closer to his bed and Sherlock in his wheely chair. He cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands and massaged his cheeks in spite of Sherlock’s scowl. He dropped a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Don’t worry, you adorable human. ‘Sugar’ doesn’t stay. It can, if you want to, though I doubt it. I said it to ruffle your feathers. It came to mind since you saturate your coffee with so much of it it matches your snuggly morning personality. But I’ll give you an insufferable pet name one of these days.”</p>
<p>“How generous of you,” Sherlock said dryly, lifting one eyebrow and John leaned in for a kiss. He hummed contentedly. “I don’t even have a ‘snuggly morning personality’, don’t be silly. I <em>will</em> get back at you.”</p>
<p>“Whatever sugars your coffee,” John smiled, and reached for his own cup. Sherlock looked at him funny. “What?”</p>
<p>“<em>‘Whatever sugars my coffee?’</em> Where did that come from?”</p>
<p>“Dunno,” John shrugged, sighing as the warm liquid warmed him up from the inside out. “It’s something I say sometimes. It started with the phrase ‘whatever butters your croissant’ and it has stayed since. The principle is simple. You can say ‘whatever floats your boat’ or ‘whatever crosses your border’ or....”</p>
<p>“I get it,” Sherlock interrupted, his expression torn between bemusement, being on the verge of laughing, and mild confusion. Ah, yes -- Irene warned John that Sherlock is willingly turning a blind eye to the Internet lingo. “It’s…. an adequate depiction of evolving linguistics.”</p>
<p>“Too much science for me,” John lamented, gulping down the rest of his semi-cooled coffee. He kicked his chair back and plopped down beside Sherlock, lying down on the other half of his bed. He stretched his joints until they popped and he shuffled onto his right side. Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed now, blowing on his coffee and sipping carefully. “You can lie down, you know. Since we’ve already conquered the couch I think this is nothing.”</p>
<p>“Hm,” Sherlock sniffed into his cup, casting John a sideways glance. He put the cup down, and lied on his stomach next to John, resting his head on his arms. “Your bed’s more comfortable than mine in the attic.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I used to sleep on one of them back in the day. The creaking was scary to my six-year-old self and Greg bought this beauty. You’re welcome to join me any time, any day.”</p>
<p>“I’ll consider it.”</p>
<p>“Bastard. Can we kiss now?”</p>
<p>Sherlock brightened up, immediately leaning in, purring, “God yes.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>The car doors banged closed and Irene leaned out of the passenger’s window to wave Violet and Molly a goodbye. “I’ll text you! And thanks, I had fun!” The girls waved back, smiling widely and happily. </p>
<p>The sleepover was a roaring success. They moved the afterparty to the attic room shortly after most of the town’s teenage population left for the O’Leary invitation. Molly and Violet were lovely companions, similarly crazy to Irene when Homestuck was mentioned. The three spent the night helping Kate tidy up -- which was not as hard as she had anticipated. However, the storm took them by surprise, and everyone who chose to stay hurried home. Eddie, Billy, and Mike went in Mike’s mom’s minivan and Kate got a ride from Mrs Hudson. </p>
<p>“Thank God they’re gone,” Sherlock mumbled as he scooted to the seat behind her. John slouched and spread on the seat next to him, Greg behind the wheel. “They’re devilish.”</p>
<p>“Be nice,” John nudged him with his knee, shooting him a disapproving raise of an eyebrow. “It’s not their fault Greg’s car is smaller than Wilkes’ IQ.” </p>
<p>Irene thanked him, laughing at the remark, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but refrained from saying anything more. She wanted to ask about their date and how it went, but decided against it as she wanted to corner first Sherlock and then John separately to interrogate them. Or maybe she’ll let them be.</p>
<p>The drive was silent since they dropped the girls off, but the glances John and Sherlock threw at each other were unmistakably an evidence of something more. She suppressed a smirk and played with the radio settings, changing the stations from radio static to barely-an-intermission to the same five shitty songs that the hosts played on repeat until Greg slapped her hand off. </p>
<p>“I don’t have the nerves to listen to that bullshit,” he said, leaning across her to the compartment where he stocked his own selection of music. He fumbled in it, eyes off road and the three passengers started to get restless. No cars drove in the neighbouring lane, thank God. Greg didn’t even bother to slow down or put the foot down from the gas, his large, calloused hand firmly grasping the steering wheel. He put a David Bowie Legacy CD in the player and <em>Let’s Dance</em> blasted off. “What’s up with the radio nowadays? Ten years ago it was the same amount of shit, but a bit better. I miss the old days.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re old,” John said in the backseat, snorting when Greg fixed him a glare. “You’re what, thirty-six?”</p>
<p>Greg pursed his lips, turning the car to the left. He cast his nephew a fleeting glance before clearing his throat, saying, “Thirty-seven, going on thirty-eight.”</p>
<p>“What? I thought you <em>were</em> thirty-six? I remember dates and years. Usually. Really?”</p>
<p>“Ah, two years up and down, doesn’t matter. Sometimes you forget, that’s okay,” Greg said, clearing his throat again and he looked outside the window on his side of the car, biting his lower lip. “And, you know, that’s how birthdays work. Twelve months pass and then boom, you’re yet another year closer to death.”</p>
<p>“That’s cheerful. <em>Still</em>. Can’t believe I thought you’re younger. You’re really getting old.”</p>
<p>“Shut up or Jesus take the wheel,” Greg reprimanded him, momentarily letting go of the steering wheel to emphasize the threat, his words lacking the venom that would otherwise be expected. He shook his head, his lips quivering as he fought a smile. John patted him on the shoulder. “Lil’ bastard, you know how to make me feel good about myself. Just wait until <em>you</em> find a grey hair. Irene, it’s your duty to tell me so that we can hair-shame him.”</p>
<p>“Noted,” Irene said, winking at John. “When’s your birthday, Greg?”</p>
<p>“Twenty-second September,” John beat his grunkle to it. Greg nodded, sighing exasperatedly. “Hey, I’m just joking old man. Grey hair actually suits you. You should dye it to silver-white. Besides, I remember the date and I’ll smother you with gifts this year.”</p>
<p>“Remind me to drive the car into the river,” Greg said, turning the car to Main Street. Irene frowned and looked at Greg who had a neutral expression on display. </p>
<p>“You don’t like celebrating your birthday?” she asked, quite surprised when Greg tilted his head in a yes-and-no fashion. “Why? I thought a Mystery Man such as yours would like to show off at a party every year.”</p>
<p>“Fuck no,” Greg said, grimacing. “I don’t mind parties as a whole, but if it’s a party where I’m the centre of attention? Nope. Over my dead body. I don’t like when people make a fuss out of it.”</p>
<p>“You make a fuss out of <em>my</em> birthday,” John pointed out, the car halting at a red light. The TV shop (or whatever) was situated at the end of Reichenbach Falls almost near the farms. The rain has stopped since they set out, but the sky remained overcast, granting the earth a prolonged rest from the near-constant summer sunlight. </p>
<p>“I make a fuss out of everybody else’s birthday, constantly,” Greg conceded. “I just like to cherish others, is all.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t mean you can’t allow others to give back to you,” Irene said, lashes fluttering at the man prettily. Hm, his birthday was less than two months away and they’ll be gone by then, but she can still make him a present and leave it for Mrs Hudson to hand over. </p>
<p>“Nah, I’ll pass. I don’t like when it’s about me. Period. It’s too much.”</p>
<p>The debate was over. Irene opened and closed her mouth. She turned around to see John shrugging, and Sherlock was lost in that head of his. He slouched in his seat, the belt pressing into his throat as he bared it to the outside world. She made a decision: they had to give Greg the best birthday present ever if party wasn’t an option. </p>
<p>Greg pulled up to a grimy narrow road, fingers tapping on the wheel. Irene watched Sherlock’s face in the car door mirror -- he was fast asleep, a tiny gap between his lips indicating he would drool soon. John himself looked tired, but so did she. She blamed the sleepover. </p>
<p>As they neared the end of Reichenbach Falls, the streets began to crowd. People in period-specific costumes flooded the road and sidewalks, and a man in a bear costume rode a horse that had a bare toilet roll taped to its forehead to resemble a unicorn. He was the odd one out. The rest of the general populace was wearing nineteenth century gowns and suits. A few residents from the area were even cooking ye olde delicacies Irene doubted to be healthy or safe for human consumption. </p>
<p>“God fucking damnit,” Greg cursed, punching the wheel, slouching in his seat. “I <em>hoped</em> we wouldn’t get to cross these weirdos. Ugh, the O’Learys are sure getting on my nerves. Sons of bitches. Daughters of the Wicked Witch of the East. Bastards thinking the rain won’t stop the fun? Oh yeah? I want to see that! You know what, I hope YOU ALL GET SOAKED AND DIE OF SOME SHOCKING RESPIRATORY DISEASE LIKE THEY WOULD TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!”</p>
<p>“Jesus, Greg,” Irene slapped him on the arm. “That’s not nice!”</p>
<p>“The O’Learys are not nice,” he bit back, stomping on the breaks before a kid in fake crutches could jump under the vehicle. A couple folks surrounded their car, peering in at them as though it was the first time they saw a modern vehicle. Okay, that was definitely creepy. Greg honked the wheel, and a few of the people in front ran to the side, scared. </p>
<p>
  <em>What the fuck?</em>
</p>
<p>“Stupid fucking celebrations, stupid fucking O’Learys, stupid fucking old money controlling the Falls,” Greg continued cursing, which roused Sherlock from his nap. Irene’s brother snapped his head to attention as Greg’s voice raised an octave, blinking wearily. She saw the besotted look John gave him when he wiped the drool off his chin -- yep, this was <em>adorable</em>. </p>
<p>The silent happiness of his nephew, however, didn’t seem to soothe Greg’s foul temper. “Stupid fucking Founder’s Day. Fuck the mud, fuck the rain, fuck the costumes, who do even think you are? Justinkopnik? Ha! As if! Watch out, dickhead!”</p>
<p>The car stopped abruptly, their seatbelts tensing and holding their bodies in place as the bear-costume-man and his wannabe-unicorn trampled across the mud stained road. The horse almost slipped on the wet ground, but managed to hold itself up along with its rider. Irene shrunk in her seat as Greg cursed his way through. She caught a glimpse of John pointing to the radio, and she turned off the additional sensory input so as not to fire Greg’s anger further. </p>
<p>At last, Greg spotted a parking lot. Unfortunately, it was closed and the gate locked, even though Irene could have sworn that Greg contemplated ramming into it out of pure spite. In the end, the angry French Canadian parked on the sidewalk, one set of wheels buried in mud. </p>
<p>Irene and Sherlock had an easier time getting out without risking staining their shoes. John climbed out after Sherlock, stretching in the fresh air. Sherlock yawned, sleep clinging onto him as he tried to shake off the last bits of it. Greg opened his doors, looked at the mud under waiting for him to step in it, promptly closed it again and climbed out through Irene’s side. It wasn’t as elegant as John’s escape, mainly because he had to watch out for the stick control panel. </p>
<p>“Fuck this shit,” Greg spat out, shutting the doors with a loud <em>bang</em> and John pinched the bridge of his nose. </p>
<p>“Alright, Greg, calm down,” he said sternly. Sherlock took a step closer to him, avoiding Irene’s gaze. “Don’t let them get to you. It’s pointless to get this angry over them. We thought it would get cancelled but it didn’t, so what? Let’s just buy the TV and go back home.”</p>
<p>Greg took a deep breath. He’d worked himself up in the car, but now that it was pointed out he listened and clapped his mouth shut. “Fine. Whatever. You kids go prance around or something, meet me here in thirty minutes. But if you come back and act and talk like the idiots around us, you’re dead to me.”</p>
<p>Greg and the trio parted ways, John leading them to a square nearby where a lot of locals had gathered. There were stands with numerous trades going on -- candle dipping, weaving, skinning dead squirrels, cooking said squirrels…. a wide selection, truly. At a corner of two streets a man holding a beaver stood in front of a makeshift altar, ten people acting as witnesses in what appeared to be a…. <em>marriage ceremony</em>?</p>
<p>“I therefore pronounce you man and beaver,” a priest said, putting a small black book down on a lectern. It wasn’t a bible, but was a secret diary of the young priest where he documented any strange ceremonies he had attended or certified in his life; it was half full. </p>
<p>“I do!” the groom in tuxedo said enthusiastically, petting his beaver-spouse on the back. The beaver clicked his teeth in agreement, and slapped its husband in the face with its tail. </p>
<p>“Why did I just see a man marry a beaver?” Irene asked no one in particular, wishing to erase this from her memory. If only there was a serum for that… </p>
<p>“I think I’ve seen this in the journal somewhere,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, shrugging off his backpack and taking out the book. Crouching, he listed through until he found the relevant information. “Yep. It was legal to marry beavers in Reichenbach Falls since it was founded until 1936.”</p>
<p>“It still is!” the freshly-married man shouted across the street, fist shaking in the air. The three exchanged funny glances and telepathically agreed not to mention it should they offend anyone else. They watched as the groom put his beaver down on the ground and walked elsewhere, the animal following him. </p>
<p>“I can understand Lestrade’s point of view better now,” Sherlock admitted, stuffing the journal back. John offered to take it, their fingers brushing and the two smiled at the other boy, completely oblivious to Irene’s presence. </p>
<p>“Aw, aren’t you idiots cute!” she grinned like a cheshire cat, forcefully pulling both of them in a hug. She felt touch-starved all of a sudden. Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but surrendered and so did John. It was an awkward embrace due to their height differences, but Irene’s strong arms wrapped around Sherlock’s neck with practised ease as she rocked them from side to side. “I’m so happy for you two, just so you know.”</p>
<p>“We know,” John smiled, patting her on the shoulder, wheezing for breath. She let go of them, her brother rubbing the sore side of his neck. </p>
<p>“I didn’t get the chance before -- how was the party?” Irene asked, the three walking towards a podium in the centre of the square. </p>
<p>“Not as atrocious as I expected it to be,” Sherlock admitted, kicking a pebble out of his way. It scuttled in John’s direction, who also shoved it elsewhere with the tip of his foot. Irene intertwined their arms, hooking her elbows over theirs as she was in the middle dividing them. “Kate is a good organizer.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad you liked it. I take it you had fun?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, and you rocked the stage yesterday, too,” John said, nudging her conspiratorially. “God knows Janine needed a slap from reality. Sad that she bribed her way to the crown.”</p>
<p>“No wonder,” Sherlock muttered, scanning the crowd around them. He was easily the tallest person among them; hell, maybe in the whole of Reichenbach Falls. </p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“It’s obvious. She--”</p>
<p>Sherlock was cut off by a microphone static deafening the whole square. Irene looked up to see a black policewoman in her beige work uniform grimace at the sound, haphazardly holding the microphone to her mouth so that she could be heard. </p>
<p>“Uh, hello,” she said, shielding her eyes with her hand. </p>
<p>“Oh no, they dragged Sally into the opening ceremony,” John said, succking in a breath of sympathy. </p>
<p>Sally continued speaking, motioning to two people seated on the back of the podium on comfortable chairs. The O’Learys. “We’re here today to celebrate the amazing and pompous Founder’s Day at Reichenbach Falls, as we do every year.”</p>
<p>The crowd cheered, and the woman named Sally lifted her eyebrows as she read from a prepared card. Her voice matched the atmosphere, but her face told Irene that she’d rather be at home watching trash telly with a milkshake in hand than attending this event. Duty called, unfortunately. </p>
<p>“I’ll leave Jo-Beth to greet you all and give you a proper feeling of why we celebrate this day,” Sally said, a fake smile on her lips as she passed the microphone to a bony woman, Janine’s mother, most likely. Her face was devoid of any wrinkles -- a work of botox, probably. She wore beige trousers and a white t-shirt Irene recognised to be Gucci by brand. Ha, as if she couldn’t tell from this far -- of course she did! What kind of fashion student would she be if that weren’t the case?</p>
<p>As Jo-Beth started talking, Irene zoned out. The tone of her voice was monotonous and underwhelming to listen to. John next to her stirred, rolling his eyes as he heard something Irene tuned out. Sherlock looked bored as ever; nothing new there. Thank goodness Greg wasn’t here -- or maybe he heard it in whichever shop he was in now? Hopefully he doesn’t break any items in his proximity. </p>
<p>An eruption of giggles on their right roused Irene from her silent observations. Janine and her two companions stood by, dressed in short skirts and brightly coloured t-shirts. The style of clothing was good by itself, but in this weather? They risked getting a cold. Sure, summer was summer but the drastic change of climate, even if temporary, could wreak havoc on the body. </p>
<p>Hm. Maybe she could go and say hi? Janine was a prideful human being, carrying herself like a crown jewel. But Irene could have the moral upper hand if not the status of the rich. Before John or Sherlock could ask her what she was doing, she extricated herself from their reach and walked over to Janine. </p>
<p>“Hi, having fun?” Irene asked cheerfully, hands clasped behind her back. Janine’s friend shut up as she approached, looked her up head to toes. They were a little speechless at the sight of her black Homestuck t-shirt. </p>
<p>“Well, well. If it isn’t our British lady,” Janine tutted, sight running critically over Irene’s outfit. Her nose wrinkled distastefully, but Irene’s smile persisted. She won’t let some stuck-up girl rain on her parade. “Yes, we <em>were </em>having fun.”</p>
<p>“Cool, what’re your plans for today?”</p>
<p>“My… plans?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, what do you normally do in the Falls?”</p>
<p>“What’s it to you? You’re not hanging out with us,” Janine scowled, perplexed by the genuine expression and sincerity of Irene’s query. She blinked it off, letting her bitchiness take the wheel. </p>
<p>“Well, I’m not. But I wanted to ask whether there are any boutiques or shops that you could recommend?”</p>
<p>“As if you knew what to look for.”</p>
<p>“I’m a fashion student, actually. I can also make my own clothes,” Irene said, her pride stepping in. If Janine dared to scoff, then not at her studies. “I could show you how, if you want to.”</p>
<p>Janine’s friends started laughing heartily at that. Irene felt a pang of hurt, but didn’t let it show. Janine joined in, disbelief evident on her makeup painted face. Not that it was bad, but she could blend the shades in more. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, honey,” Janine wiped a tear off her face, “but I wouldn’t take fashion advice from your kind even if my life depended on it.”</p>
<p>“That’s pretty rude, you know,” Irene deadpanned, her voice low. Her shoulders froze, her back rigid in defense. “I didn’t get to Toronto for nothing. Fashion isn’t black and white. It is whatever makes a person their own self.”</p>
<p>“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” Janine patted Irene on the cheek. Heat crept up her neck, a silent vow of fury ready to be unleashed if needed. “Listen, <em>Irene</em>. Have you ever considered that shopping in child aisles is outdated for you? What even is this t-shirt? And the pictures on it?”</p>
<p>“It’s merch. It’s Karkat and Dave from a webcomic called Homestuck,” Irene replied dryly, crossing arms over her chest. She slapped Janine’s hand away when she attempted to grab at the material. </p>
<p>“Another thing for children, isn’t it?” she teased ruthlessly, her friends giggling. Irene opened her mouth to retort, but Janine spoke faster. “Poor you, can’t keep it straight in that head of yours? Admit it, it’s silly. If you were a serious fashion student, you’d study elsewhere than in Canada or in clothes like <em>this</em>. Seriously, check out <em>my</em> Instagram for inspiration. You’re how old? Eighteen?”</p>
<p>“Nineteen,” Irene corrected her through gritted teeth. Saying it felt strange. </p>
<p>“Even worse. Snap out of this childhood stuff, hun. Or you’re not going to get far. Fashion is merciless. The whole industry is. You think you’d survive on t-shirts from cheap stores? Wake up and change your wardrobe.” Janine winked at Irene, her friends sending her air smooches as they walked towards the podium where Janine’s mother waited for them. “Goodbye, <em>Irene</em>.”</p>
<p>Irene stood alone in the small abandoned space Janine and her vile girl friends occupied seconds ago. Her head spun, not quite wrapping itself around what had happened. Time felt strange. As if her conscious self drifted upwards to the sky, watching her body remain on Earth, immovable and stuck. Blinking, she snapped back to present where she realised that either John or Sherlock were speaking to her. </p>
<p>“Irene?” It was Sherlock, his deep voice luring her back to her body with its rational undertones. She wasn’t sure she could stand that right now. She looked in his colourful eyes, concern and fury creasing his brows. </p>
<p>She stepped back, avoiding his hand he stretched out to steady her further. No, she needed to think about what was going on in her head without his logical interference. Not for long, just enough to brace herself for it. Sherlock’s rationale helped, but at least once she should let her emotional side deal with it first and not repress it. </p>
<p>“I’m fine. I don’t want to listen to why she’s wrong right now, though,” she said, turning around, getting lost in the crowd, in the <em>nobodies</em>. “I -- I have to think for a while. I’ll be right back.”</p>
<p>Perhaps there were fellow Homestuck fans among the strangers, silly people, and fashion disasters too, or not. Did it matter?</p>
<p>Irene didn’t know.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a little bit of angst at the end but johnlock is there to make it better... on the 1st of March!<br/>the bit where the man marries a beaver is taken from Gravity Falls, where a man on a similar expo married a woodpecker. Don't ask :'D I couldn't resist Alex Hirch's tomfuckery and had to include it for the sake of nostalgia<br/>&lt;3 I hope you're all doing good!</p>
<p>Updated: 25.2. 2021<br/>Word count: 6385<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a good day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. National Treasure-Trove II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which John helps and Greg slips</p><p>episode 8, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we're back! upcoming some cute johnlock, angry Greg, and supprotive John~<br/>thank you for reading and enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and pizza</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John watched Irene’s tidy bun bounce up and down through the crowd. He and Sherlock overheard the conversation between her and Janine O’Leary, a legendary bitch of the town. John’s hand balled into a fist, and he sensed Sherlock’s silent fury alike. </p><p>Sherlock dropped the backpack on the pavement, stomping his foot. “I’ll end her. What’s her address?”</p><p>“That can wait,” John said, whole-heartedly agreeing to the destruction of an O’Leary that hurt his friend’s feelings. But they needed to make sure Irene is alright first. “Hey -- I will go and get Irene. You can go fetch Greg and we’ll meet you at the car.”</p><p>“He’s <em>your </em>‘grunkle’. You drag him out of that shop.”</p><p>“You’re not in the mood to calm Irene down. I can guarantee you that Greg will join your evil ploy to destroy the O’Learys and leave as soon as you mention it.”</p><p>“I don’t know what’s scarier: you being a secret evil companion to my genius, or that I find myself liking Lestrade with every passing day.”</p><p>“Both are good. Greg is cool.”</p><p>“Debatable,” Sherlock said, pecking John on the cheek. John smiled, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. “Tell Irene that t-shirt looks great. And that Davekat is canon. That should help.”</p><p>“Understood,” John nodded. His fingers lingered on Sherlock’s where they intertwined. “You tell Greg that Angelo’s cooking his special until four today. Should motivate him not to chat up the electronics owner too much. And don’t forget the O’Learys! He’ll run out screaming in a matter of seconds.”</p><p>“He could use some exercise,” Sherlock hummed, getting a laugh out of John. </p><p>“Yeah, we can come up with that plan when we get back to the Shack. But nap first, I’m tired.”</p><p>“You dozed until noon.”</p><p>“Not the same. Plus I listened to you going on about the musicals and murder shows that you like,” John pointed out, squeezing Sherlockps fingers lightly. A faint blush appeared on his cheeks, and he looked to the side to hide some of it. </p><p>“Sorry,” Sherlock shifted on his feet and John frowned. </p><p>“There’s nothing to apologise for. I like listening to you. Your voice is soothing, did you know? You could narrate documentaries with it. About penguins, maybe, or whatever it is people narrate these days.”</p><p>“Why penguins?”</p><p>“Dunno. Random thought. Maybe there’s an alternate universe where you already did and you messed up the pronounciation or something.”</p><p>“That’s a bizarre concept,” Sherlock smiled timidly, inching closer again. John hugged him around the waist and pressed them chest to chest. He could fall asleep standing if he were able to cuddle Sherlock like this. Eyelids suddenly became heavy, he leaned into Sherlock’s weight more, and his boyfriend had to muster up some last-minute strength to prevent them from falling over. “That tired?”</p><p>“Just comfortable,” John said, pressing a final kiss to Sherlock’s cheek as he extricated himself from their embrace. “Okay, we have to stop or we’ll hug until the end of days.”</p><p>“Not the worst plan we’ve had,” Sherlock replied smugly, letting his arms fall limp along his lean body. He was wearing an olive jacket over a purple t-shirt. He and Irene bothered to put on jeans for the occasion of going to town. Greg dressed in his usual suit trousers and white shirt, but John went in his second set of pyjamas, because giving a fuck about that when you’re tired, on holiday, and in mud-filled square in Oregon, is simply out of the equation.</p><p>“It isn’t, but Irene needs us and Greg needs to get the car ready,” John reminded Sherlock, walking backwards as he waved him a short-term goodbye. “Tell him to wait here!”</p><p>Now he had to locate Irene and give her the best pep talk he was able to deliver. </p><p>~</p><p>Sherlock sighed dreamily as he followed John’s back make its way across the square, disappearing here and there among the common folk. At last, he snapped out of his head, stuffing hands in his pockets. He had to fetch Lestrade, remind him of his passionate hatred of the O’Learys, and return to the Shack so that he can snog John again. </p><p>He narrowly avoided colliding with a pack of children running around with kites, but he barely noticed them trying to trip him with the strings -- John Watson was <em>officially </em>his <em>boyfriend</em>. He couldn’t care less about dying right now, he achieved happiness beyond the realm of this universe. </p><p>Unbelievable was one word to describe how Sherlock felt. Sharing a kiss in the rain was probably the single most romantic thing he’d ever experienced, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Well, he and John could have done without the near-constant cockblocking yesterday, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Three weeks ago, he wouldn’t believe even himself if he were told he got to kiss John. And now? Let’s say he planned to make up for the time in between. </p><p>Maybe it’s crazy that they had started this relationship after knowing each other for three weeks, but for once in his life, Sherlock didn’t give a damn about rationality. And he absolutely gave no damn about conformity and tradition. The spark and ignition that had begun on the second of July had only strengthened over the course of the month, gaining velocity as it progressed. </p><p>Back then, Sherlock’s developing feelings were nothing but a desperate cry in the distance behind mountains of worry and denial. Today, they reign a whole wing in his Mind Palace shamelessly, and he lets them. He didn’t even remember the last time he was this happy and elated. Maybe sometime in March, but that point in time is somehow blurry in his mind -- strange, he usually has a clear memory of everything. Who cares? He has John, that’s enough now. </p><p>Sherlock’s brain cleared, his vision focusing on the pavement and his feet. Left, right, left, right. Looking up, he saw the electronics shop Lestrade went into. The doors opened automatically as he walked into the sensors’ range. It was a small shop; there was a selection of televisions, radios, kitchen appliances, and printers that had the function of being a karaoke on special occasions. Curious. </p><p>Lestrade was sitting cross-legged on the cashier counter, chatting amiably with whom Sherlock presumed to be the owner -- a tall, muscular man with thick glasses wearing a Big Bang Theory hoodie. He had his head shaven, probably as a result of genetic balding early on in his twenties. Instead of trying to maintain few patchy spots of hair, he embraced his new style and submitted to his genetic inheritance. A good move on his part. </p><p>“Hello, can I help you with anything?” the owner asked politely as he saw Sherlock walk towards them. Lestrade turned to him, frowning slightly. </p><p>“Hi, no need, thank you,” Sherlock replied, and the man dipped his head in acknowledgement. He looked intently at Lestrade, who gave him the ‘<em>What?</em>’ expression of confusion. </p><p>“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, hopping down on the floor. </p><p>“We need to get going.”</p><p>“I haven’t gotten the TV yet, you kids have to wait.”</p><p>“You’ve been here for ten minutes already,” Sherlock clipped, letting his eyes scan the rest of the shop. It has been renovated recently, the paint was clean and fresh where it would otherwise be stained or smudged with accumulated dirt and dust. Save for the sound of the appliances beeping, it was serenely quiet and peaceful. </p><p>“Yeah, I was talking to Matt here,” he gestured to the tall man who waved at him. Greg leaned against the counter. “If you give us ten more we’ll get going.”</p><p>“Can you hurry?”</p><p>“Sherlock, what’s the matter?” Lestrade steered him to an aisle with blenders. Did they have a blender at the Shack? He could do all sorts of experiments with it…  </p><p>“We have takeaway to order and Irene got insulted by Janine O’Leary. John is currently making sure she’s alright, but we should get going.”</p><p>“What?” Lestrade hissed, his eyes hardening. He sucked in a breath and cracked his knuckles. Sherlock realised he <em>really </em>started to like him more. Just a tiny bit. “Alright, we’ll pack it right away. I’ve had enough of those bitches fucking with my family for one day, let’s go. I know what we’ll do.”</p><p>Sherlock blinked and followed Lestrade up front. Did he imply he viewed him and Irene as family? He filed it away for later, although it sounded odd to his ears. Lestrade had a protective streak and instincts just like John, it seemed. </p><p>In no less than ten minutes, the brand new TV was safely secured in the car’s trunk and Lestrade paced on the sidewalk. “John said to pick them up at the square,” Sherlock told him, opening the passenger’s door to get in. The mud dried a little on the driver’s side, but not enough to avoid clinging to their shoes. </p><p>“Fuck this day, honestly,” Lestrade swore under his breath. Sherlock saw the moment when he gave up on the world -- when he braced himself and stepped into the mud anyway to get inside. He could’ve used the passenger’s seat but apparently that required too much effort. </p><p>The mud squirmed and splattered, and Lestrade struggled to keep his marbles together. Sherlock was amused by being able to witness an internal struggle such as this one, even though human psychology wasn’t his strongest suit... yet. Honestly, Lestrade could prove to be the perfect lab rat, but he’ll have to get John’s opinion on this first. </p><p>Sherlock hopped inside and waited for Lestrade to do the same -- not an impossible task by any means, but as the car door opened, a tomato hit the windshield. A pair of school boys giggled and threw another piece of the fruit at them, this time aimed at the Mystery Man himself. </p><p>Lestrade froze in horror, then shock, then fury. He scolded the boys, who only intensified their throws, no intention of stopping on the horizon. “Where are your parents?” Sherlock heard Lestrade say, barely containing his rage. </p><p>“Dunno, where’s your grave, old man?” a black-haired boy said, weighing a tomato in his palm. Little to no supervision by his actual parents; mostly raised by an older sibling. </p><p>“If you don’t stop throwing that crap on my car, I’ll drown you in tomatoes,” Lestrade threatened, making the boys laugh. What followed was a thorough red tomato shower, and Sherlock gladly waited inside the car, shielded from the curse called children. “HONESTLY! Do you want me to run you over as well? Get you some Oliver Twist injuries for you so you can beg passersby for money?”</p><p>“Greg!” a low, young voice of a man in a police uniform dulled by the car’s interior got their attention. Sherlock recognised him as Dimmock, Sally Donovan’s colleague. He was obviously appalled by the exchange of words, namely Lestrade’s. “How can you say that to innocent children?”</p><p>“<em>Innocent?</em>” Lestrade bellowed in disbelief. Sherlock buried his face in his hands, laughing. Luck wasn’t on the scammer’s side today. “These spawns of Satan just massacred my car, myself included! I look like I’ve been stabbed!”</p><p>“I’m sure it was just an accident,” Dimmock said from the sidewalk on Sherlock’s side. He laughed even harder; was that man pulling a leg or did he genuinely believe these boys were the good guys? </p><p>“Yes, sir,” a second, brown haired boy said, mock innocent. “We were passing by with our basket of tomatoes from our ma’s grandma’s garden, and then we tripped and it fell on the car!”</p><p>Dimmock hummed sincerely, empathically. Lestrade turned to him like a wasp ready to sting. “Are you kidding me? You honestly trust these little suckers?”</p><p>“There, there,” Dimmock placated, trying to diffuse the tension. Unsuccessfully, may Sherlock add. The boys started fake crying, quite convincingly. Dimmock bent in the knees and coddled the boys by saying, “Don’t worry you two, scutter along. Or would you like to see how I arrest this man?”</p><p>“Arrest! What for, Dimmock?” Lestrade gasped, taken aback to how the situation was evolving. Dimmock took out a pair of handcuffs, and the devil boys cheered. Lestrade backed up, circling the car making this a cat-and-mouse chase. “Are you crazy? I’m the victim here!”</p><p>“Sure, but you’re breaking the law of no twenty-first century mocking and swearing on the Founder’s Day,” Dimmock said, and Sherlock utterly lost it. He was basically in the middle of it and nowhere at the same time. </p><p>“Bullshit! There’s no such law! I’d know, so that I would be able to circumvent it,” Lestrade quipped, sliding across the hood of the car. “I’m not stupid, you know!”</p><p>A small crowd gathered around them, most people cheering mainly for the brawl, taking no definite sides. Dimmock was running out of breath (doughnuts), and Lestrade as well (smoking). The two circled each other until the French Canadian slipped on the mud, yelled, “<em>SHIT!</em>” loud as thunder, and fell. </p><p>At last, Dimmock put handcuffs on the man, wheezing for air. The policeman victoriously raised Lestrade’s handcuffed hand, which jerked away immediately, banging into the car acoompanied by a, “<em>Fucking <strong>HELL</strong>!</em>”</p><p>“In ye stocks! In ye stocks! In ye stocks!” the crowd chanted, and Dimmock dragged the mud and tomato stained scammer to an ancient stock construction on a street off the main square to the right. </p><p>Then it dawned on Sherlock that their transport home was taken in custody. Actually, John had a driver’s license…. Hm, no, he wouldn’t leave without his uncle. Sherlock got out of the car, but realised he couldn’t lock it. Ah, well. It wasn’t his to worry about it. He looked around the square, but John and Irene were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Irene was more upset than both of them had initially thought. He’d go find them, but then God knows what may happen to Lestrade… One problem at a time, he told himself. </p><p>Sherlock located the ‘ye stocks’ easily. The crowd dissipated slowly, and the position Lestrade was in looked obviously uncomfortable. His back would hurt for at least the next three days. The man in question seemed to have resigned to his fate; his head hung low as the stocks dictated, and he semi-crouched in an awkward pose. Sherlock pitied him, to a degree. The bigger part of him still thought it hilarious. </p><p>“Sherlock, get Donovan,” Lestrade pleaded, his voice strangled as his windpipe tried to coherently make sounds. “Dimmock is a dickhead. I’m having none of that shit.”</p><p>~</p><p>It turned out that hunting Irene down wasn’t a herculean task after all. The girl sat down near a statue of the town’s founder, Balexander O’Leary, a man with a beard forever sculpted to his face, a determined, wrecking look imprinted in the stone cold, heartless rock. What a legend, that man Bale. Actually, the same legend has it that he first drew a map in his dream and then found the place for this town later during his miserable, unfulfilled life. Then he burned his red jacket and danced around it in during full moon with his similarly mentally unstable friends and thus he bounded himself to eternal slavery of his own perfect ‘fantasy’ town. </p><p>Huh, like this, it didn’t make much sense. But then, nothing in Reichenbach Falls made sense most of the time, John thought. Especially since Sherlock had discovered the journal. It must have been wild, having ol’ O’Leary around. John wasn’t a native citizen, but he certainly liked the town’s lore. There would be time for that later -- there is his friend to cheer up. </p><p>Irene chewed on her long hair, eyes cast down on her shoe clad feet. The rest of her ponytail flailed in the faint cold breeze, goosebumps rising on her skin. Distraction and uncertainty took over her smooth features, and John’s chest tightened at the sight. </p><p>“Hey -- you okay?” John asked, huffing as he seated himself next to his boyfriend’s sister. Not the best starter sentence. </p><p>“I need some old timey butterbeer,” Irene said, tapping her foot anxiously. “And then disappear to Hogwarts and bullshit my way through Potions classes with Snape.”</p><p>“Yeah, he’s definitely better company than Janine and any of her folk,” John said. Suddenly, he remembered that he threw a bag of jelly worms in the backpack before leaving. Sherlock had a sweet tooth and he bought it the other day for snacking. And Irene was in need of some sweet stuff. “Have at thee.”</p><p>Irene wordlessly took the jelly worms, tearing them in half using her teeth. She chewed slowly, distractedly. John gave her space for breathing; he knew that a bit of silence went a long way in situations like this. He certainly appreciated it instead of being hounded for useless responses…. </p><p>“John, can I ask you something?” Irene’s voice lured him from his thoughts that were about to get darker. </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“Am I childish?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But, you know me. It’s hard to point out flaws in friends.”</p><p>“Yeah, no. If I see something I don’t like I say it. My delivery may be nicer but I’d tell you if you were acting less than what your age is and it was inappropriate,” John told her firmly. His palm shook her lightly by the shoulder. “What’s childish is Janine’s spoiled behaviour. She’s acting like a bitch just ‘cause her Daddy has money.”</p><p>“But it’s true that I’m acting sillier than I would in London or Toronto,” Irene said sadly, burrowing her face in her small hands. The heavy ponytail dipped over her left clavicle. “I mean, I don’t mind it. I don’t have to pretend to be this typical fashionista around you. Is it bad that I do that in university? That I have this ‘professional’ and ‘home’ persona?”</p><p>“Nope. That’s normal.”</p><p>“But… It’s true that Homestuck is sort of… weird. Extreme. Atrocious. The fandom knows it. Hussie -- the creator -- knows it. Am I overbearing with it? I reference it when I get the chance and the dots connect. Is it annoying?”</p><p>“No, it’s not,” John countered truthfully. He enjoyed Irene talking about the webcomic, even though they didn’t officially start reading it together yet. It was time to change that. “It’s fun to see people bring up their passions. It also gives me an inside look at what you like and what your sense of humour is, so in case you ever get sad, I can cheer you up.”</p><p>“That’s…. Sappy,” Irene smiled, bumping him in the shoulder. “All that love is getting to your head.”</p><p>“About time, isn’t it?”</p><p>“You bet! Two pining idiots finally admitted how they feel and started dating. It’s like an Ao3 tag prompt that has fulfilled the prophecy. I meant what I said earlier -- I<em> am</em> happy for you both.”</p><p>“Thanks. And <em>I</em> mean what I said just now. The fact that you reference a webcomic you like doesn’t make your passion or associated memes any less valid, Irene.”</p><p>“Thank you, John,” Irene said, gulping down a handful of jelly worms. “You don’t have to cheer me up. I feel like I’m raining on your and Sherlock’s parade with this.”</p><p>“You’re absolutely not. You’re my boyfriend’s sister, so that gives me the right to destroy anyone and everyone who hurts you along with him. Sorry if it’s too overprotective, but I really don’t like hypocrisy like this. Namely when rich people criticize others when I bet that Janine has a dirty pleasure of her own that could profile her as ‘weird’ by some people.”</p><p>“Jeez,” Irene laughed, finally lighting up a teeny bit, “you’re starting to sound like Sherlock. You two are impossible, do you finish each other’s sentences too?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t notice,” John replied, biting on a jelly worm of his own. His butt was getting cold from sitting on the concrete and he shifted for a better position. Physical consolation may help, so he hugged her around the shoulders. “Irene, don’t let Janine get to you. Don’t let her stupid negativity drag you down. I myself had to deal with assholes who shut me down if I got too passionate about a subject I liked; it’s not worth the trouble to mind them.”</p><p>“Who shut you down?” Irene asked, looking apprehensive. She shouldn’t, John basically started it and allowed the question to be formed, but he didn’t mind. </p><p>He took a deep breath through his nose, gaze stretching to the square and the folks occupying every inch of it. “Usually? My parents. It’s a puzzle piece belonging to a larger picture, but the jazz is that if my interests didn’t match theirs, it wasn’t important and therefore brushed off.”</p><p>“I’m sorry to hear that,” Irene offered, brows scrunched up in a frown. John looked down at his hands, his shoulders twitching up and down in a shrug. </p><p>“Yeah, well. It is what it is.”</p><p>“Are you still living with them?”</p><p>John considered the question. He thought back to the first week of summer holidays when he ambushed Greg in his office and they had a heart-to-heart conversation about John’s then-troubles. He usually distanced himself from the topic of his family until the last possible moment. </p><p>Truth was, he did not live with them. At least not most of the time, now that he was at university and studying. But oh, how he dreaded those trips back to his hometown. The scrutiny and criticism of his parents, albeit now divorced. For some unknown reason, however, the manipulation and critique has only ever doubled since their separation, much to John’s distress. </p><p>But now? Greg has offered him a permanent place to stay. He always had it, naturally. In fact, a corner of his heart and soul took Greg as his only true family member, next to his sister (albeit estranged) and Mrs Hudson. The rest of him felt guilty for that. Weren’t these people that gave him his first home his parents, after all? Thinking about it always made him nauseous and anxious. Greg offered him an out. Was he going to take it? </p><p>Yet despite his unnecessary guilt, his rational mind acknowledged how toxic his parents were, always living their dreams through him. He was the older sibling, he was supposed to take care of them when they were old and of Harry when she was too young to look after herself. But throughout the years of what he now recognised as emotional manipulation, he grew to loathe it, and to a certain extent his parents too. Should he feel bad about it? Again, the logical part of his brain told him: <em>No! Look at all the trauma they caused you!</em> But he couldn’t help himself. Some of the behavioural patterns were still too strong. </p><p>But John knew that he had to make a definite decision once summer was on the brink of an end. And his gut feeling told him he had already decided. </p><p>“John?” Irene’s concerned tone brought him back to present. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to snoop --”</p><p>“No, it’s not about that,” John huffed, shooting Irene an apologetic look. He could get lost in his thoughts easily when it came to this. “My home life… It’s complicated, to put it lightly. Greg helps me sort it out, though. You don’t have to worry.”</p><p>Irene’s face softened, her right cheek rising minutely in a tentative smile. “Alright. But if you ever want to talk about it, you know where to find me. Sherlock is there for you by the natural order of things, of course.”</p><p>“I know,” John smiled, the inside of his chest warming up at the fact that he and Sherlock were <em>together</em>. He felt like a part of him that was missing for months was retrieved and safe with him again. Truth be told, he sensed that feeling the very first time he set eyes on Sherlock, but now they were a thing in reality. </p><p>“So we can agree to fuck up the other’s haters when it gets too much?” Irene chirped, suddenly cheerful, although her smile had a venomous undertone to it. </p><p>“Absolutely. Which brings me to another thing -- now that I saw how Janine hurt you, I’d like to return the gift. I can’t believe journalists haven’t latched onto their past yet to find some dirt like they do with everyone else. You know what? Get up, we’re doing it ourselves.”</p><p>“What? Right now?”</p><p>“Yes!” John proclaimed, suddenly heated up by the vision of having dirt on Janine with which he could tell her to fuck off to infinity and beyond in Irene’s name. Or, he would hold Irene’s purse or preferred item of choice as she went to fuck up that rich bitch herself. </p><p>“But -- how do you want to do that? It’s not like we can go around the square and chit chat with people about how they hate the O’Learys! They’ll stone us to death!”</p><p>John thought about it for a second. Then he realised there was a backpack lying at his feet. And it had a mystery journal inside. He bent forward to take it out and list through it. “Hold that thought -- I think I’ve read about her great-great-great-great-great grandfather before when Sherlock dozed off in the car the other day. Listen to this: <em>‘In my investigations, I came to discover that Balexander O’Leary may <span class="u">not</span> be the founder of Reichenbach Falls. The enclosed document holds the secret, although neither L nor I deciphered it yet.’</em>”</p><p>John carefully extracted the document that was taped to the yellowish page with a washi tape. Unfolding it revealed a drawing of a rectangle that interrupted what seemed like a map of sorts. There were alchemical symbols scattered across it, too, but John knew that because Sherlock told him so. </p><p>“You see this?” he said, handing the paper to Irene. He got more excited by the second. “If this cover up turns out to be true, that will mean that Janine’s whole family is a fraud! Man, this is a whole new conspiracy.”</p><p>“You’re way more excited than I’d guess you’d be,” Irene mused, tapping her cheek. John giggled and she raised an eyebrow. “Oh God, what did Sherlock do to you?”</p><p>“Oh, this isn’t Sherlock’s doing,” John waved a hand, putting the journal back into the backpack’s safety and throwing it over his right shoulder. “This is me acting as Justice. And if we prove that Janine’s life as she knows it is a fraud, then who’s the silly person, then?”</p><p>“I never knew you could be so vengeful,” Irene marvelled, putting on her hoodie. “We shall go destroy that bitch’s confidence. Where to?”</p><p>John offered Irene his elbow in mock-manner, which she took as they determinedly stepped forth, John leading the way to the Reichenbach Falls library. He got a glimpse of blond hair partially hidden under a pink silk scarf he recognised as Mary’s, and as such he swayed them to the side and away from what could be an uncomfortable encounter. They walked, spines straightened and minds clear about their goal, unaware that a humanoid, hooded person from behind the statue listened to them the entire time. </p><p>With stiff movements, it followed. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>owo, who's that mysterious figure?<br/>(I'm sorry)<br/>we'll see on the 5th!<br/>I hope you guys are doing well! &lt;3</p><p>Updated: 1.3. 2021 (happy bday Jensen Ackless?)<br/>word count: 4524</p><p>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. National Treasure-Trove III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Sherlock deduces</p>
<p>episode 8, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi peeps! We're back!!<br/>Thanks for reading &amp; enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and cheese</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Donovan, for the love of any God you believe in,” Lestrade growled, a twinge of whine in his voice, “<em>please</em>, let me out. I learned my lesson.”</p>
<p>“Which is?” Donovan asked, a predatory smirk on her face indicating how much she enjoyed this. She broke into a violent fit of laughter the moment she saw her friend confined to the ancient almost-torture device.</p>
<p>“To kick Dimmock in the nuts and advertise condoms more so that no spawns of Satan ever cross my path again!” Greg spat out, body twisting against its confines. The scenery was amusing to say the least, and Sherlock had a hard time not bursting out into giggles. This was hopeless. </p>
<p>“Huh, going to educate youngsters about safe sex, are you?”</p>
<p>“Maybe. How about you free me so I can prepare a presentation?”</p>
<p>“Nah, I think you can cool down for a while more. Don’t you think so, Sherlock?” Donovan said, black curly hair bouncing as she whipped her head around to look at him. He could feel Lestrade telepathically warn him about the consequences should his answer be different than what he expects to hear. </p>
<p>Sherlock weighed his options: on one hand, he wanted badly to see how high Lestrade’s temper was going to rise before steam escaped through his ears; but on the other hand, what would John think of Sherlock standing by idly? There was a chance that he would laugh his arse off (preferable, since he had a good sense of humour) or that he would frown, question what had happened, and scowl at both Lestrade and Sherlock for being immature around police officers. Which, to Sherlock’s defense, is John’s uncle’s fault. He’s just partaking in a social experiment he had declared a couple minutes ago. </p>
<p>He really was interested to see how Lestrade would escalate this on his own merit. But then again, Sherlock felt a pang of empathy for the man. He also despised misbehaving feral children, and the two brats that played innocent conveniently upon confrontation had reminded him of his school bullies. So yes, he did think that Lestrade’s imprisonment was unjust. But the chase around the car with Dimmock and the slip on mud? Bloody hilarious. Ten out of then, he’d witness the fall again. </p>
<p>So, Sherlock decided to do the morally right thing and shrug. “I think his back could use a little rest,” he said, shifting weight on his feet. “I mean, Dimmock said he did break a few laws centered around this absolutely unneeded, time-wasting day with his foul language, so he’s not <em>completely </em>innocent.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Sherlock,” Greg huffed sarcastically, his wrists circling hopelessly in the air. </p>
<p>“What I’m trying to say,” Sherlock emphasised, “is that Lestrade’s been humiliated enough publically. You should definitely let him cool down, but if you won’t let him go and take us home, at least put him in a cellar. He’s getting old, I don’t want to carry him on my back to the car.”</p>
<p>“Very funny,” Lestrade said dryly, struggling to look up at Sherlock. “Just wait until <em>you</em> turn thirty. That’s when shit gets real you twenty-something Brit.”</p>
<p>“I’m nineteen, actually.”</p>
<p>“Nah. You look older. If you looked closer in the mirror, I think you’d <em>see</em>.” </p>
<p>Strange comment.</p>
<p>“Ever the flatterer, Greg,” Donovan said, patting her uniform for keys. Success! She walked over to the construction and unlocked the pads, freeing Lestrade. </p>
<p>The man massaged his wrists and neck, mumbling a ‘thank you’ to the policewoman, waving a hand in Sherlock’s direction. Then he fixed him a curious look, though there was something mildly calculating about it as he scanned him from head to toes. Sherlock felt like a part of him he didn’t necessarily acknowledge was exposed. “Seriously, though. The epiphanies I get once I observe the details I didn’t think were there, hah.”</p>
<p>“And then you find a grey hair and your mood is ruined,” Donovan added, whipping up a pair of handcuffs, grabbing Lestrade’s freshly freed wrists and imprisoning them once more. </p>
<p>“What? <em>Why</em>? Haven’t I suffered enough?” Lestrade whined, groaning as Donovan tugged him towards the police station. Sherlock followed in tow, hands in pockets. He zipped up his hoodie; the wind blew stronger on the open street. </p>
<p>“I’m giving you the walk of honour,” Donovan said smugly, tipping her hat at a pair of old ladies in old-fashioned dresses. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”</p>
<p>“More like a walk of shame. Want me to strip my clothes so people get a better view?”</p>
<p>“Please. The station will get <em>so</em> many memes out of this!”</p>
<p>“Fuck no, who do you think I am? An exhibitionist?”</p>
<p>“No, just an angsty Canadian.”</p>
<p>“Ha-fucking-<em>ha</em>.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, I practise my skits in the mirror.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s lips curled up as he silently bore witness to their conversation. Lestrade was irritated, but he didn’t take it out on anyone close to him. He and Donovan were likely old friends, that much was obvious that day when he and John investigated the case of Gloria Scott with the Winchester brothers. Their bickering was based on firing off of the other’s comments.</p>
<p>He wondered how the Winchesters were doing in Florida. If he remembered correctly (and he did), they were supposed to be exorcising Mickey Mouse and Walt Disney. They also mentioned that they would be going back through Reichenbach Falls too, and he was anticipating them any day now. A part of him wished they’d bring him a souvenir. He has never been to Disnyeland in his life and neither plans on going, but having Treasure Planet merch? He wanted that. Best if paid for by someone else. </p>
<p>Treading up the concrete stairs into the police building, Sherlock caught a glimpse of Henry. The poor guy was performing a happy skippy dance for anyone interested, but people usually passed him. Sherlock’s mind read through the data he had on Henry: insufficient. What happened to him? If there was a way of helping him, Sherlock would do the best he could in order to help him return back to his old, usual and happy life. Another case!</p>
<p>He has to gain new data. </p>
<p>Sherlock caught up with Lestrade and Donovan inside. Most of the building was empty, only a few of her colleagues were present. Dimmock was probably still outside. </p>
<p>“Dead town, this place,” Lestrade mumbled, neck turning left and right as he observed their surroundings. </p>
<p>“Tell me about it,” Donovan said, hushing them to the room in the back behind the receptionist’s desk. There was a metal door she pushed through, leading them to the cellars. There were three, each separated. One was already occupied -- by someone’s grandma. Donovan and Greg were both apparently familiar with the woman.“Mama Odie! Long time no see.”</p>
<p>“Sally!” the old woman crooned sweetly. She got up using her cane for support and waddled towards the bars. She was wearing a long white dress that contrasted nicely against her ebony skin, and her cane had an imprint of flames on it. Mama Odie certainly had style. “Lovely to see you, how’s your daddy doin’?”</p>
<p>“He’s doing fine, Mama,” Donovan replied, smiling warmly at the woman. </p>
<p>“And you, Gregory? Anythin’ new?” </p>
<p>“Afraid not, Mama,” Lestrade shrugged, his shoulders sagging forward as his head hung low. He finally seemed to be calming down. </p>
<p>“Why is Mama Odie in jail?” Sherlock heard himself ask. The adults turned to him. Mama Odie laughed maniacally, Greg grinned, and Donovan leaned against the bars as she looked Sherlock up and down. </p>
<p>“Let’s say that she doesn’t particularly like a certain sort of people ruling in this town,” Donovan said, her shoulders squared. </p>
<p>“The O’Learys?”</p>
<p>“Yup!” Mama Odie cheered, whacking her cane on the floor maliciously. Sherlock knew he didn’t want to be at the receiving end of it. “Their family ain’t nothin’ but vultures in our town. Been like that since eighteen ninety-nine, been like that forever. <em>Nasty </em>people.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t they settle here sooner than at the end of the nineteenth century?”</p>
<p>“Mama Odie has been around since that year,” Lestrade explained, the handcuffs clanking as he tried to stretch his arms. He glared at the offensive metal, then shot a look to Donovan who feigned ignorance to his staring. </p>
<p>Sherlock did a mental flip. He scanned Mama Odie head to toes, taking in her relaxed posture and obviously active mind. Quite the woman. There was more she hasn’t revealed yet. Keeping her tricks a secret, good tactic. “So you’re hundred and twenty-three?”</p>
<p>“Hundred and twenty!” Mama Odie winked at him and did a small happy dance that consisted of her doing a lap around the tiny cell. Sherlock only now noticed that there was a rocking chair laid out with a comfortable woolly pink blanket. There was even a fluffy carpet underneath so that she didn’t slip in her purple slippers on the polished floor. She was a joy.</p>
<p>“Mama’s birthday is in December,” Lestrade said, resting his cheek on one of the cell bars. There were dark circles under his eyes that became more prominent in the sharp lights of the station. How much did he usually sleep? “Twenty-fourth, right?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Gregory,” Mama nodded, her thin arm reaching through the bars to pat him on his left bicep. </p>
<p>“You certainly don’t look your age; you’re way more hyperactive than what I’d imagine someone in their hundred’s to be like,” Sherlock conceded, straightening his posture under the adults’ scrutiny. “I’d guess you to be at least half a century of your current age, Mama Odie.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you!” Mama grinned, prosthetic teeth shining at him. Sherlock couldn’t resist the urge to smile back. The woman emitted contractive energy that made him feel full of life -- well, fuller than the two-hundred percent he was at right now, given that he and John got together. “Is he yours, Gregory? What a handsome young man, this boy. And the voice! You could lull me to sleep any time, rawr! Haha!”</p>
<p>A faint blush crept up Sherlock’s neck upon hearing Mama’s words. Donovan and Lestrade snickered, but then the policewoman poked Lestrade to shut him into a cell next to Mama Odie’s after she took off his handcuffs. That cell had no such comforts as Mama’s. It was plain, cold, and uninviting. A drastic contrast, though it appeared as though Lestrade didn’t mind. He simply walked over to the bench in the far back and collapsed on top of it, heaving a sigh. He ran a hand through his greying hair. He was a sorry sight to look at without the context of him slipping on the mud earlier and preaching the importance of condoms. </p>
<p>“You’re British, aren’t ya?” Mama Odie asked as Donovan turned the lock on Lestrade’s cell. Sherlock nodded, coming closer. “I had a platonic lover from Britain once. Interesting guy, that one.”</p>
<p>“Was he your husband?” </p>
<p>“God, no!” Mama laughed hysterically. “He always appeared and was gone before you blinked, ha. Said you shouldn’t blink if you saw stone angels, too.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps he was stoned himself,” Donovan suggested, getting a laugh out of Lestrade and a sniff out of Mama. But something inside Sherlock stirred at that. Like a memory long buried wanted to resurface, or was it a mere dream? He used to have quite the vivid dreams when he was a child and his older brother went missing about weeping angel statues. The details escaped him, though. </p>
<p>“Naw, he wouldn’t. He was a gentleman. A little cray-cray in the head, but who isn’t? He still sometimes visits on occasion.”</p>
<p>“That’s nice of him,” Lestrade said, stretching himself out on the narrow bench. “Another oldie to bring down racists. Will he join us for the annual egging party of the O’Leary cottage?”</p>
<p>“No idea, Gregory. But I won’t join it either, I’ll be spendin’ time with ma’ grandkids. Don’t worry, I’ll put a good stash of eggs for you aside.”</p>
<p>“Annual egging party?” Sherlock repeated, flabbergasted by the lore of this town and how it stretched beyond his expectations. </p>
<p>“Yeah, a couple peeps and I go ‘round the town the day before Halloween and egg the shit out of the O’Leary cottage in the north district of Reichenbach Falls,” Lestrade said, a satisfied smirk on his face, eyes closed. “It’s a teambuilding activity.”</p>
<p>“I bet.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Hey, Sally -- how about you let me go? I feel one with the universe now that I met Mama.”</p>
<p>“Hm, no,” Donovan considered and flat out refused the plea. She tapped away on her phone keyboard before pushing a button to send the message. “It seems that I have to rush to the square. Some idiots started a fistfight over a beaver. <em>Again</em>. Ugh, I hate some laws on this day.”</p>
<p>She took off, leaving a frowning Lestrade and a happy Mama Odie behind. Sherlock didn’t count, he was a free man. Mama waddled over to her rocking chair and sat down, resting her wrinkly hands in her lap. She started humming a familiar melody. </p>
<p>“Sherlock, you should find John and Irene,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock’s brain came to a halt for a split second. He had forgotten about his boyfriend and step-sister due to this untimely interruption. He blinked several times before rebooting, nodding, and checking his phone for a message of their whereabouts. There were none. Maybe John was still talking to Irene. </p>
<p>“Oh, your Johnny is in town?” Mama cooed sweetly, turning her upper body towards Lestrade’s cell. “How is he doin’? Is he a doctor yet?”</p>
<p>“Still studying. He’s fine, aside from some private drama, I guess. Actually,” he said, glancing at Sherlock, eyes crinkling as he gave him a soft smile, “I think he’s doing amazing recently thanks to this guy over here. Sherlock and John are --”</p>
<p>“Oh ma God! Johnny found himself a boyfriend? Finally! Come over here, Sherly.”</p>
<p>Sherlock blinked twice, his legs carrying him without noticing. This has played out faster than his social filter could properly register the flow of words. Mama walked towards Sherlock and reached for his hands, squeezing them, then putting them on his cheeks. All this, he found he didn’t mind, as much as he loathed touches from strangers. <em>But Sherly</em>?</p>
<p>“So handsome,” the woman said, and Sherlock let out an awkward laugh. How are you supposed to react to this? “No wonder Johnny fell for you. And you for him, ha! Cuties, the both of ya. Johnny had chubby cheeks when he was a lil’ kid. You’re all sharp but handsome, too. Take good care of Gregory’s boy, alright?”</p>
<p>“I will,” Sherlock told her solemnly. He felt another soft pat on his cheeks before she released him. He turned his head sideways only to see Lestrade watching him, but there was nothing that would imply he in any way didn’t trust what Sherlock said there. No, he was in fact still smiling. Sherlock shifted his gaze on the wall next to Lestrade. “Uhm. I’ll go and find John. And Irene. Please behave, I don’t want to spend the night in county jail.”</p>
<p>“That was <em>one</em> time! What has John told you?”</p>
<p>“Enough to know to never prank call the neighbours here!” Sherlock flashed him a toothy grin as he turned on the balls of his feet and rushed outside, trying to catch signal. The weather didn’t help, and neither did the pine trees. Sodding Oregon, how was he supposed to find his boyfriend? But chubby cheeks… he had to find the pictures. Lestrade ought to have pictures of John as a kid, no? He filed it away for later.</p>
<p>Sherlock tried sending a message to their group chat, but it showed that neither of them received it. Sigh. This is what they needed. On a day when he could be cuddling in bed as it rained! He definitely had the right to at least slightly resent Lestrade for dragging them out today. And as such, he also had the right to do whatever he wants the moment they come home -- meaning he’s dragging John to bed for cuddles. And kissing. Lots and lots of kissing. And if anyone tries to interrupt their inevitable snogging session, they’ll pay. Literally. Ulysess Grant was practically their accomplice in this. </p>
<p>Outside, however, Sherlock got sidetracked. He caught a glimpse of Henry entertaining children (not the two brats from earlier) with a thought-out skit about a squirrel and a beaver. Sherlock came too late to understand the point or moral of the story, but Henry seemed to be enjoyable for the younger audience. As the skit ended, the children each tossed the man a couple dollars to his feet, but Henry ignored the money. </p>
<p>As he saw Sherlock cross the street to meet him, his head tilted to the side as he took him in. Sherlock was easily looming over most people he came across (the exception being Sam Winchester, who had a couple centimeters on him). Henry swallowed and shifted nervously on his feet. Still skittish around adults, at least, Sherlock noted. He tried to appear less as a threat and more like a friend. Time to take out his theatre skills from elementary school that helped him save face from bullies. </p>
<p>“Hi, Henry,” Sherlock gave the man a smile, but not too aggressive to be misinterpreted. Sherlock knew that kind of smile well. The guys that had tried to make him a target for beating up usually put it on frequently. “How are you?”</p>
<p>“I, uhm…” Henry’s head hung lower; he refused to meet Sherlock’s inquisitive gaze. His hands clasped together and fingers intertwined, only to be untwined immediately. “I’m okay.”</p>
<p>“That was a nice skit you had there,” Sherlock continued, trying to sound believable and not like he was talking to a five year old. “Interesting ideas. Were you always a performer?”</p>
<p>“No,” Henry replied. He rubbed the side of his neck, sucking on the inside of his lip. “I just show children stories I heard when I was a kid. That treacherous squirrel deserved to be shaved!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it did,” Sherlock agreed, although it was hard to hide his perplexion. He thought it was a reenactment of a scene from the movie <em>Ice Age</em>. Or did he remember it differently? “Since when are you doing the skits? Do any of your friends watch them?”</p>
<p>“They do,” Henry nodded. “The crescent moon and the sun are cool buddies. They’re always there.”</p>
<p>Uhm. Sherlock sucked in a breath. Okay, Henry was kooky. But it was nonetheless unbelievable, some of the things and concepts that left his mouth. Surreal, even. What would a person have to go through in order for them to turn into… this? An out-of-mind, completely changed personality-wise husk of someone who Henry used to be prior to the incident? He suffered a loss of memory in addition to the stress -- or as a result of it?</p>
<p>“What about your old friends?” Sherlock asked cautiously. This was unknown territory, but he had to experiment with this to see what worked and what flunked. “Do they visit you? Talk to you?”</p>
<p>Henry fidgeted more, taking a small step back. “I… I don’t have old friends. I…”</p>
<p>“It’s alright, Henry,” Sherlock said quietly, trying a sympathetic approach. </p>
<p>“<em>I don’t remember them!</em>” Henry suddenly shouted, covering his ears and he ran off, leaving an even more perplexed Sherlock behind. </p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it, he does that a lot,” a familiar male voice said, making Sherlock turn around and come face-to-face with Dimmock. He was holding a paper coffee cup. No steam rising out from under the lid; cold. Probably forgotten on his desk. </p>
<p>“His case was never resolved, was it?”</p>
<p>“Nope. Sally herself hounded every clue or trace of what may have happened herself. No gain. And Henry’s state never improved.”</p>
<p>“Why do you think that may be?”</p>
<p>Dimmock gave him a half-shrug. He gulped down the rest of his coffee and threw it in a nearby trash can. He wiped his mouth in the sleeve of his uniform and motioned Sherlock to walk with him. </p>
<p>“I guess it was stress,” Dimmock said, hands crossed across his chest. He rubbed his arms, the wind picked up on intensity. “The doctor that evaluated him thought so, too. They even got Henry to try alternative ways of remembering what had played out that night -- hypnosis, psychics, tarot, everything available.”</p>
<p>“Tarot?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, the local tarotist offered to try and give insight, but I wasn’t there.”</p>
<p>“Are they still around?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I think Mama Odie’s sister did the reading,” Dimmock said thoughtfully. They stopped in front of the police station. “Who knows? Maybe we’re not meant to know. Or maybe some spell fell upon Henry and we won’t know until he remembers it himself. It’s sad, though. I was there, you know. The night he disappeared. We all went to sleep and woke up to him being gone. We thought he just went for a walk, but then he didn’t come back for a couple hours and we freaked out. And when a ranger with the dog found him…”</p>
<p>“He was frightened, and lost his memory,” Sherlock finished, feeling uneasy by the whole situation. Dimmock hummed, kicking a stone from under the sole of his shoe. “So you’re one of his friends. He doesn’t have a clue who you are.”</p>
<p>A pained frown furrowed the policeman’s eyebrows as he nodded. “We’ve been buddies since highschool. None of us pulled a prank on him; that’s childish. I think that whatever happened to Henry, it could’ve been way worse. Couple months before we went camping a woman got lost in the woods and turned up dead, but it was a rattlesnake bite, according to the forensics department. I’m just glad Henry made it out at all on his own. He’s never been one to spend much time in the forest alone for long, but we thought that maybe he saw an interesting flower and went on a research spree. He was a botanist before.”</p>
<p>“Interesting,” Sherlock muttered. A botanist? “So you say the woods around here aren’t very dangerous besides the occasional snake bite?”</p>
<p>“Nah, it’s all fine. Just watch your step.”</p>
<p>“Will do. What about Donovan? You said she took the case on herself, was she close to Henry?”</p>
<p>“Well…”</p>
<p>“Dimmock!” Donovan appeared from around the corner, waving wildly at him. “I need you to go help Gregson and Alison out, there’s the wannabe beaver fuckers fighting again!”</p>
<p>“Coming! Jeez, that should be illegal eternally.…” Dimmock said, rubbing his face in his hands. He bid Sherlock farewell and ran off. Donovan, on the other hand, shook her head, sighed exasperatedly, and walked towards the police station to presumably go fill in the paperwork. Maybe Sherlock should ask the source herself, although he had a feeling that he should preamble it with something else first. Experience taught him that he should sugar-coat some of his personal deductions (although that was pretty stupid), so he decided on a little delay in his delivery as he gathered more sufficient data. </p>
<p>He ran after Donovan, slithering through the narrow gap of the closing doors leading inside. Slightly out of breath, he made his way to her desk. She looked up at him, eyebrows arched in silent query. </p>
<p>“Uhm,” Sherlock started, realising he had no ground to stand on. His eyes scanned her desk where a report on robbery had been sitting for the past few days seeing as it had a round coffee mug stain on it. It sat atop a whole box of other files; dropped off by a colleague then. “Can I have a look?”</p>
<p>Donovan gave him an odd look. <em>You’ll get used to it</em>, he thought to himself. “It’s not something I’m supposed to allow as a police officer, but sure.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Sherlock’s eyes widened with lust as he snatched the report from her desk. He flipped through the pages -- he had his hands on a somewhat-real case!</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s not like I want to get into it now. And there’s no one else here. I hate paperwork.”</p>
<p>“I can only assume it’s boring,” Sherlock agreed, taking a seat opposite of Donovan. Oh, this was <em>perfect</em>. Listing through, he saw that the case wasn’t concluded by anyone yet. An unsolved case, albeit primitive from what he read so far? This was the perfect opportunity to get Donovan on his side. This way, she will be able to see how good he is and as such Sherlock can gain her trust in his abilities. And as a result, he can potentially get information out of her about Henry! Moreover, he himself can gain experience from this ‘official’ case solving. </p>
<p>Perhaps it was too early to get his hopes up in regards to solving Henry’s case, which was given up on by many others prior to his arrival to Reichenbach Falls, but well… </p>
<p>It was time to show off. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the crescent moon and the sun... where have we seen it before?<br/>foreshadowing!<br/>next chapter, John and Irene will be digging up dirt on Janine~ see you in 5!</p>
<p>Updated: 5.3. 2021<br/>Word count: 4138<br/>Thank you all for reading and wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. National Treasure-Trove IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which somebody comes back</p><p>episode 8, chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>who's coming back? who can it be??<br/>welp, seems like we gotta find out!<br/>thanks for reading and enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and honey, which is the sweetest thing ever</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Alright -- here’s the battle plan,” John said, determination sparkling in his dark eyes. “We go through every available historical book in the library. If we find anything coherent that doesn’t have children’s scribbles written across the pages, we could find evidence that Balexander O’Leary wasn’t the town’s founder. That will put Janine in her place.” </p><p>“And that will prove that we have bigger problems to worry about regarding Reichenbach Falls’ politics than shitty Homestuck!” Irene clapped, her body wiggling on the chair she was occupying with excitement. The jelly worm pack crunched as she reached into it, tossing a sour tail in her mouth. </p><p>John scratched his temple, propping his chin on his fist as he leaned into the table. His gaze focused on the journal’s document that lied rolled out in front of him. He had grabbed a couple books on ciphers and secret codes that now lay spread out between him and Irene. His boyfriend’s sister was currently listing through a book from the 1860s while the Civil War raged in the US. They had to go at least thirty more years into the past. </p><p>Shifting on the uncomfortable chair that pressed into his tailbone, John exhaled loudly through his nose, scanning the pages for anything even remotely resembling the symbols on the document. He sighed, resting his brow atop a book about the cracking of the enigma code momentously. Irene munched on the jelly worms, her tongue clicking against the back of her teeth. </p><p>
  <em>What would Sherlock do?</em>
</p><p>The thought nagged at John as he worried his lower lip. Come to that, where was he? He was supposed to get Greg, but thinking of them, he had completely forgotten about the two. He checked his phone, but there were no messages. Maybe Sherlock didn’t find his grunkle yet? Or perhaps Greg had gotten himself into another round of poker with that electronics friend in the TV shop. Or he got arrested, but John ruled that one out pretty quickly. Greg wouldn’t get himself landed in county jail when he bought a new TV. </p><p>Seeing as John had zero notifications, perhaps they weren’t leaving soon and neither his boyfriend or grunkle were in search of them yet. It would be best if they could continue for as long as possible, but the moment Sherlock texted him they’d postpone it and return with the detective in tow the following day. Hm… Although it would be a nice ego boost to show Sherlock that John wasn’t just fruitlessly tagging along and that he could provide a good second opinion to the young detective. Sherlock would protest that he isn’t a detective <em>yet</em>, but he was as good as to John. He was amazing, brilliant, and all-round the smartest person he had the fortune to stumble upon. The sheer memory of their first meeting and everything that led to this? It made his stomach flutter still, and his heart melted. Everything felt right. </p><p>And to top it all off, why not show Sherlock that John can put up with the logistics of the chase as well? Sure, he was smart, but Sherlock took it to another level, admirable heights that many people like Sebastian Wilkes didn’t appreciate enough. Yes, Sherlock could lose social filters when he got impatient or lost in the spur of the moment thanks to his vigor, but it spoke volumes about his passion for the profession he had created for himself. And that? That was what made Sherlock so unique and also goddamn lovely and attractive. </p><p>And also, John was sure that would be deserving of a pretty fucking good smooch session afterwards. </p><p>“John! I found it!” Irene exclaimed, shoving a thick book in his direction. “See this symbol?”</p><p>“Alchemical symbol of fire,” John read from the page. “Hmm.”</p><p>“Do you think that means we have to light the paper on fire?”</p><p>John tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe? Hold that thought. But what would it reveal?”</p><p>He flipped through their mystery journal, eager to find a helpful clue. Unfortunately, their position within the tangible lore of Reichenbach Falls was restricted to the third journal only. And there was no way of knowing where the other books were currently. Maybe they were destroyed. There was no point in guessing that at present -- they had gossip to find and tea to spill. </p><p>The burning may be relevant, but how? Would it release a spirit into the air that would lead them to the true record of the town? Would the ashes burn into the wood beneath, revealing an arrow pointing in a direction where the answers lay? Jeez, he was getting ahead of himself. All those TV shows on Netflix kept suggesting lots of scenarios, but what should he trust? His instinct told him that <em>well</em>, fire might be the way to proceed, but they should search for a second solution, too. </p><p>When John looked up, his eyes widened, and the chair fell backwards as he hurried to snatch a lighter Irene held under the crumpled paper. “No! Wait!” He knocked the item out of her grasp with a swat, taking the document back from her.</p><p>“Ouch! Yelling at the top of your lungs is enough, John,” Irene reprimanded him with a glare, but it disappeared quickly as she rubbed the sory spot. She picked up the lighter and toyed with it as John smoothed it out on the table’s narrow surace. </p><p>“Sorry. I mean, you’ve got a point, but how about we try to think of a Plan B first?”</p><p>“Sure. Damn, looking back, burning it may not be the wisest idea…”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it, anything is possible in this town. Where did you get the lighter?”</p><p>“Nicked it off Sherlock,” Irene said neutrally, leaning back in her chair as she regarded John with an innocent look. When John cocked an eyebrow, she continued. “What, you didn’t know? Sherlock smokes.”</p><p>“What?” John sat up straighter, not sure whether he had heard that correctly. </p><p>Irene’s corner of her mouth twitched, obviously uncomfortable by putting herself in the middle of this. Her newly polished nails clicked against the table, holding John’s confused gaze. “About that… He steals the cigs from Greg. He thought I didn’t know, but he got impatient and blew his cover the other day.”</p><p>“He gets them from Greg.”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>“Since when does he smoke?” John pressed, unsure of how to feel about this. This wasn’t betrayal or any sort of similar thing -- God no. “I never caught him! How?”</p><p>Irene snorted. “He sneaks out during the night sometimes. Or he tries to smoke in the attic in the open window. I swear I’m tempted to sneak up on him when he wakes me up…”</p><p>“I can’t believe he smokes too!” John tugged at his hair, his medical persona coming to a wake. “Does he realise what health disadvantages that can lead to?”</p><p>“Greg does it too, I haven’t seen you be this ferocious with him.”</p><p>“I am! I very much am! But he’s a stubborn old ass, he’s not going to break a habit.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh. He knew that smoking was something he shouldn’t interfere with much. In the end, smokers generally didn’t care for an outside opinion. But… their health! </p><p>“Relax, John,” Irene chuckled at his inner turmoil. “I’m sure that once Sherlock sees your disapproval, he’ll quit out of guilt. He is rather ashamed of it, you know. Mummy wouldn’t be happy if she heard of it either.”</p><p>“Glad to see you have blackmail material on your brother,” John murmured, rubbing his cheek against the back of his hand. “Jesus. I mean, it’s their thing. But as a future doctor, I should be disapproving, don’t you think? At the same time, though, I don’t want to be a little bitch and be a dictator. I won’t tell Sherlock what he’s able to do and what he’s not. That’s not how a relationship works.”</p><p>Irene hummed, approving. She gave him a knowing smile; making no attempt to tell him otherwise. Suddenly, her expression turned mischievous. “Oh! You know what would work, though? You busting Sherlock in the act. He’s usually so sure he won’t get caught by you or somebody else. Yeah, that will knock his ego down.”</p><p>John considered that. His family was full of smokers and he grew up hating the habit. When he arrived first to Reichenbach Falls sixteen years ago, Greg wasn’t smoking. He took it up gradually, but suddenly nonetheless. Mrs Hudson had once told him that it used to be a stress reliever, but <em>only</em> when the stress levels were higher than the Shack’s profits. That used to be rare. But then, one summer, Greg smoked every day, and it stayed since. John had no proper recollection of his time here from then, he was eight, coming up on nine years old. But he had a memory of his grunkle slouching on the porch in the evenings when he thought John was prancing about. Yes, that memory was very vivid. </p><p>Greg had been sitting out in the summer air for hours at that point. Mrs Hudson was inside watching the TV and knitting, and John had gone upstairs to play war with plushies and those plastic green and camouflaged soldiers. He had picked up on Greg’s behaviour. He had seemed distant, somewhat, as if not completely there. Mrs Hudson had told John Greg was sad, but neither adult bothered to enlighten his eight-year-old self. </p><p>And John -- he had had no idea how to raise the subject with his grunkle. Greg had always been important to him, and they were close to one another since the day they had met at a disastrous family gathering. Of course John had noticed, and he had wanted to help, but how could he? He was a child whose family life was falling apart at the seams -- still is -- and reviewing the memory, it became obvious Greg had no desire to burden him further. </p><p>But that evening, John had sneaked out of the Shack during twilight. Greg had told him the previous day about fireflies in the forest and how they lit up during this time of the year. He had also told him that there were pixies hiding under the trees’ leaves (ha, little did he know!), and John had a taste for adventures, even then. </p><p>His unsuccessful hunt, however, had turned him back in the Mystery Shack’s direction. Coming closer, he was allowed to see Greg how he usually missed him: wrecked and drained, a cigarette burning away at snail’s pace propped between his middle and forefinger. It was a pitiful sight, and an emotion of grief surged forward at the recollection. Because John had walked up to his grunkle, whose head had snapped up, startled at the sight of his tiny nephew. </p><p>“You’ll stink,” John had said, throwing himself around Greg’s waist in an off-hand attempt to comfort him at least physically if not verbally. </p><p>“Sorry, kiddo,” Greg had wrapped his arms around him eventually, exhausting the cig. John remembered scrunching up his nose in distaste. “That’s the last time, okay? Just… it helps, sometimes.”</p><p>“I’m never gonna smoke.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t want you to. You make good choices, John.”</p><p>“I have to be a doctor one day, I should be healthy,” John had mouthed into Greg’s ribs and the crumpled t-shirt he was wearing. “And you too.”</p><p>“I will be, don’t worry,” Greg had reassured him, crouching in front of him. “Hey, how about we go watch a movie and then read from that encyclopedia of yours you brought with you?”</p><p>And that had been the end of their small talk. Later that night, John had fallen asleep on Greg’s shoulder in his room. The two had been talking about stars and planets until they had gotten tired. After that, Greg had seemed to take better care of himself, and for the rest of the summer, he had at least napped frequently from what John remembered when the Shack was closed after a busy day. </p><p>Sure, even today Greg’s sleep schedule remained appalling, but at least he’d regained some life essence since then. But… the smoking stayed. Although, last year wasn’t as dreadful as this. John had to have a serious talk with his grunkle. He wasn’t a child anymore, adult talk was something he could take. </p><p>“You know what?” John said, snapping back into reality. Irene didn’t seem to notice his reverie, opening a new bag of jelly worms and enthusiastically devouring a fistful of them. “We’ll leave it up to coincidence. I’ll pretend that I don’t know, keep it a wild card. Maybe I’ll get Greg to stop smoking in the meantime.”</p><p>“That way Sherlock would lose a free source of cigs!”</p><p>“Exactly. Or I catch him in the act like you said. But I won’t blackmail him into stopping, that’s not my style. I may do that with Greg though.”</p><p>“Lovely,” Irene smacked her lips, scrunching up her nose as she looked at John’s hands. “What is that?”</p><p>John’s gaze followed hers, and he frowned at his absentminded creation. During his mental flip-back to his childhood, he played with the document and folded it as the creases led his finger pads. The final product of his accidental origami production yielded a paper boat-hat. However, it wasn’t just any boat-hat. In fact, the hat folds aligned into directions, essentially creating… </p><p>“A map!” John gasped, lifting the hat into the air, observing closely. Irene shuffled onto a chair next to him. “See this? That’s us here. The wiggly line pointing there… Hold on, wait here.”</p><p>John stood up abruptly, leaving a flabbergasted Irene behind as he hurried to the library entrance. Out on the front porch, he used his navigation skills and interspatial imagination to follow the marked trail. If he was correct, then they had to go to the local cemetery up the road, which wasn’t that far off. Couple hundred meters at most. Yes, that made sense.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, Sherlock will like this.</em>
</p><p>John darted back inside the library, apologising off-handedly to a tall person he bumped into. The stranger said nothing, and John paid him no attention whatsoever, his mind narrowed down to the goal of sniffing out the ultimate truth. He rubbed his shoulder, a little stiff from the impact of colliding with another person. <em>As if they are made of wood</em>, John thought fleetingly. He was unaware that the person was wearing a hoodie, their head slowly turning to trail him coming back to Irene, lost behind countless bookshelves. </p><p>“It leads to the cemetery,” John said, breathless. In the meantime that he was gone, Irene packed the mystery journal, the bag of jelly worms lying haphazardly on the table as she grabbed worm after worm to devour.</p><p>“Are we going right now? Want me to call Sherlock?”</p><p>“It’s just a short way up there. If we see anything suspicious, we’ll mark it and call him.”</p><p>“Cool. Do we need to put the books away?”</p><p>John stopped, glancing at the pile of books they’d accumulated. He threw the backpack over his shoulder, taking the heaviest tomes into an awkward embrace. “I’ll make it quick,” he promised, telling Irene where to take the other books he couldn’t pick up. He ran up further into the library, trying to find a cart where he could deposit the historical books. </p><p>He located one such cart near a printer that sat propped up on a drawer next to a table with an unlocked computer. As he stood by, the printer beeped, and a picture of smiling Nicolas Cage slid out. A set of shivers ran down his spine; he didn’t feel thrilled about the guy since that day at the Shack when some sort of weird impostor ghost that was possessing a doll with the actor’s picture glued to its face attacked him with its army of devilish Disney Princesses. </p><p>For a split second, John considered throwing the picture in the bin. But his own discomfort shouldn’t rain on the parade of some Nicolas Cage enthusiast. He put the rest of the tomes on the cart and skedaddled back to Irene, who waited for him at the entrance. </p><p>“You alright, brother-in-law?” Irene asked, smirking as John did a double take. She offered him the bag of jelly worms, but he declined. The coffee he’d had in the morning fulfilled his daily quota for sugar intake. “What? Sherlock comes with the whole package. I should hope to expect a happy announcement soon.”</p><p>“You’ve got one today,” John replied, cocking an eyebrow as he led them towards the cemetery. “Look, I’m constantly falling for Sherlock, but one thing at a time, alright? But it’s flattering.”</p><p>“Aw, aren’t you adorable!” </p><p>“Nah, I’m cute. That’s a fact.”</p><p>“And modest, too.”</p><p>“You know it, I’ve got that from Sherlock,” John winked, and Irene laughed out loud. As they got on the sidewalk, a glimpse out of the corner of his eye made John flinch. He thought he saw the printed Nicolas Cage picture in the library’s window. Jeez, his imagination was playing tricks on him. But who wouldn’t have mild PTSD after fighting off a maniacal doll who stepped on Mr Rabbiarty in cold blood? Plus, that fucker swung a real-ass katana at his boyfriend. It was personal. </p><p>He shook the unease off. Irene kept up the pace, her gloominess dissipating the further they got lost in the chase of the case. He was glad to see her relaxed and back in her old, confident spirits. </p><p>John looked over the makeshift map, turning it around. They haven’t noticed this before: the other side of the document also aligned into a mini drawing. It showed a rough sketch of a man in a business suit pointing to something in the distance, a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes, hair gelled smoothly backwards. </p><p>“Seems like we gotta find this statue,” John said, handing Irene the folded document so that she knows what’s up. </p><p>“This dude is fancy,” she concluded, pouting appreciatively at it. </p><p>They stepped over the threshold of the cemetery. In fact, this was one of two in the town, this being a smaller lot, and older by a margin. Most of the first villagers and a few of the later generations were buried here. Huh, it fit that information about the founder would be here -- or contain more clues in the least. </p><p>“Did it say where the statue is?” Irene asked, shielding her eyes with her hand as she took the morbid view in. Half the tombstones were covered in moss or overgrown by ivy, leaves of which glistened in the acquired moisture and raindrops like jewelry. </p><p>John checked the document, hissing as a drop of water fell on the paper, immediately soaking into the material. He hastily took a picture of it and hid it in the backpack. He zoomed in on a few places where scribbles described nonsense, but not even the folded item and map revealed anything new. They’ll have to locate the statue purely by themselves, their lead being the sketch. </p><p>“Nothing, so let’s circle the cemetery and we’ll see.”</p><p>Irene nodded, setting out on a stone pathway, one that rested uneven after years of lacking upkeep. John glanced over at the weak, creaking metal gate sheltering the cemetery lot from the street, and froze on the spot. There was again a hooded, tall person walking by, but they were far from the gate for John to see who it was. His heart beat faster, but the stranger didn’t seem to notice him, walking past the gate, though their movements were somehow rigid, as though they were limping or had a back pain. </p><p>“John! Are you coming? Dirt on Janine is waiting for us!” Irene called after him from top of a small hill. </p><p>“On my way!” John said back, not raising his voice too much as not to disturb the deceased. It’s been a habit since when he was a child. He didn’t think of it as silly -- no, actually, he liked the idea of it. After all, cemeteries were the places of the buried people’s last rest, so peace and silence was the reasonable price to pay here. He shot the entrance gate one last look, the mysterious figure long gone. He stuffed the uneasy feeling deeper down in his chest, pressing on with their current objective. </p><p>He caught up with Irene; she’s been pacing back and forth trying to see anything relevant from the top. The cemetery lot was vast, but its flora coverage made it look more wild and fuller, if a little packed. </p><p>“There! I see it!” Irene exclaimed excitedly after they’d done a round down the other side of the lot, staying on the concrete pathway. </p><p>“Quieter, Irene,” John automatically told her in hushed tones, catching up with her enthusiastic skipping. </p><p>“Shit, sorry,” she said, realising where they were at the moment. </p><p>The statue had also been given a new coat in the form of ivy. Or rather, a full bodysuit piece, seeing as the succulent climbed up the dude’s legs. His hard features were unreadable, his face invisible to the outside world under the cover of green. His outstretched arm, however, gave him away. And through the fingers of his pointing hand and forefinger resided a single red rose, its petal redder than the purest blood. At the bottom of the pedestal were the initials ‘JM’. </p><p>“Let’s call this mystery guy Jim,” Irene suggested. John wouldn’t know if it fit, given that the dude was overgrown by weed and ivy, but it’s not like he’ll care. </p><p>“What do we do now?” John voiced his question out loud, putting hands on his hips. He circled the statue as Irene took a picture of it. </p><p>“Well, the dude points back at the gate,” Irene said, shrugging. “Maybe the knowledge is so forbidden we’re banned from learning it?”</p><p>“Too bad we’re nosy young adults.”</p><p>“Precisely. Maybe there’s a button on him somewhere.”</p><p>“I hope it’s not on his crotch.”</p><p>“Getting coy, John? And here I was, thinking you finally shagged my brother to seal the deal and stop being so shy,” Irene sighed dramatically, bursting into a laugh when John choked on his spit. </p><p>“Irene!” he said, voice scolding, an embarrassed flush crawling up his neck. Then he let out a weary sigh. “I can never expect those innuendos of yours.”</p><p>“Good. It’s intended to be a surprise.”</p><p>“I have to get at you, someday. But first I’ll have to figure out what makes <em>you</em> flustered.”</p><p>Irene snorted. “Good luck with that, Johnny-boy. I’m quite the resilient lesbian.”</p><p>“So I’ve noticed. And don’t call me Johnny.”</p><p>“Sorry.” She looked up at the dude-statue, concretely his outstretched arm. A drop of water fell on her nose, tickling her skin. She scrunched up her nose, wiggling it from side to side to avoid sneezing. “Do you think I could take the rose? It’s gorgeous.”</p><p>John shrugged, squinting up into the cloudy sky above. “I mean, generally I wouldn’t take anything out of cemeteries. But… It’s a rose. I don’t know. Really. But I don’t think…”</p><p>“Oh, to hell with it,” Irene said, overstepping John, taking a stand on the statue’s pedestal, one leg mid-air to regain balance as she reached for the rose, lightly plucking it out of Jim’s grasp. “There we go. Ouch! I pricked myself! Oh no -- I’m falling!”</p><p>Thankfully, John was there to save Irene from landing face-down into muddy grass. His reflexes caught her while she slipped, hands on her waist to make her steady. Irene jumped down on the firm ground with a huff, proudly showing John the rose as she sucked on her finger where the skin was penetrated by a green thorn. </p><p>“You and your brother sure have a knack for getting injured,” John commented grumpily, taking Irene’s hand to inspect the wound. It was minor, and the bleeding would stop on its own, but better put a bandage on it anyway. He shrugged off the backpack and rummaged through, finding a package he started taking with him <em>just in case</em>. </p><p>“Oh my God, unicorn bandages?” Irene gasped, letting John put the thin plaster over her sensate finger pad. </p><p>“They’re cute,” John said, recalling the day he bought them. It was in Toronto, back in January. At least they were of use now instead of sitting in his drawer. “And yes, the rose is nice. Although we could’ve gone without the fuss of you almost falling on your head.”</p><p>“Where’s the fun in that, then? A proper adventure needs a proper risk.”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>Irene looked over her shoulder at the statue, then at the rose. It <em>was</em> exceptionally red. John remembered a scene from Alice in the Wonderland where the girl had to paint all the roses in the Queen’s garden red. Irene’s rose glistened in the raindrops, and for a moment he thought it grew even redder, as if it had acquired real blood. He shook his head -- <em>you’ve a wild imagination, Watson</em>. </p><p>“So… What now?” Irene asked, kicking a pebble out of her way. </p><p>“Dunno. Maybe we missed a secret entrance somewhere,” John joked, observing the statue in front of them again. What would Sherlock look for? There’s not much to look at besides ivy and the arm, which was now robbed of its only decoration. And he sure as hell didn’t want to stick his hands into the ivy, God knows what insects were hiding under its leaves. </p><p>Irene kicked Jim’s pedestal, her foot pendling back rhythmically. She held the rose in her open palm, not wanting to squash it. John took out his phone; they’ve gotten stuck at a dead point. Unfortunately, he had no reception. Shit. </p><p>“Let me call Sherlock,” John said, motioning towards the beginning of the cemetery. Maybe he’ll catch a signal there. “We don’t have anything else to help us. Unless coincidence decided to lend a hand.”</p><p>It became apparent in that exact moment that coincidence did, in fact, have a sense of humour. As Irene hummed approval, the tip of her shoe nudged something soft and pliable under the ivy. A clicking sound startled the two, and they took cautionary steps backward on the concrete pathway. Hissing filled the air, and the statue’s pedestal vibrated, shifting ever so slightly until a trapdoor revealed itself right underneath it. </p><p>Irene and John watched it unfold, mouths agape. The trapdoor fell open in the same spot where Irene was standing a minute ago. She gulped next to John, realising the fortunate timing on her part. They looked at each other, a twitch of their heads passing a clear agreement between them. John stuffed his phone back in his jacket, zipping it up as to prevent it from falling out, but Irene stopped him.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” John asked. </p><p>“I don’t want to throw the rose away, but if we go down, I don’t have much choice,” she said, looking down at the plant speculatively. </p><p>John tapped a finger on his thigh. Suddenly he remembered a big enough jar Sherlock had asked him to pack as well prior to their departure. Irene gave him a weird look when he took the glass out. “What? Sherlock likes to take samples while we’re out. I suppose your rose technically counts as one. Here, plop it in. It won’t get squished in this.”</p><p>“I’ve got to give it to Sherlock, he’s nifty,” Irene said, depositing the rose inside. John sealed it carefully and put it back into the backpack’s safety. “He’s been taking samples since he was a kid, you know.”</p><p>John smiled warmly at that, trying to imagine young Sherlock, knees covered in mud, curls even messier and wilder than they were now. “I kinda figured. It’s nice to know he didn’t let go of his passion.”</p><p>“Yeah, but he got ridiculed for that by his classmates in primary school,” Irene gave him a lopsided smile, sighing. </p><p>John’s jaw slacked tighter. He knew children could be cruel. But for some reason, he couldn’t -- didn’t want to -- picture Sherlock getting bullied. He went through something similar, the only difference being that he was shushed by his family. But Sherlock? No wonder he was so shy at first. </p><p>“Well, I’m here to see to it that it doesn’t happen ever again,” John swore solemnly, holding Irene’s gaze. </p><p>“I know,” she winked, pushing past him with her head held high to take a closer look at the trapdoor. </p><p>There was a ladder on one side, and a cold breeze wheezed out around their ankles. John went in first. The ladder wasn’t long, leading them perhaps ten meters underground. Irene took out her phone and flashed the battery so that they were able to see in the darkness. </p><p>Laid out ahead of them was a narrow corridor, tunneled out some unknown time ago, but John guesses it had to be long in the past. The air smelled stale but moist, tickling the inside of his nostrils. He had to fight the urge to sneeze. </p><p>“What is this?” Irene murmured, keeping close to John. “I’m getting the heebie jeebies.”</p><p>“A bunker? Or a passage that leads to some secret safe? I don’t know. Let’s see what’s at the end, and then we can come back with Sherlock. I don’t feel good here either.”</p><p>Irene patted John’s bicep and said, cheerily, “Well, big guy -- you’re the muscle here. You’ll protect us both from anything sinister, I’m sure.”</p><p>“Thanks, that made me feel better,” John remarked sarcastically, but without the bite. Truth be told, he felt like he was walking on knives. His ears were picking up on any strange sounds protruding from the darkness surrounding them. He thought back to that mysterious stranger that appeared at the cemetery. Yep, his imagination was definitely getting the better of him. He shook his head: Sherlock would roll his eyes at him for this. </p><p>After a while of walking they came to a round room, or at least a caved out space. Irene located an old school light switch, and bared lightbulbs flickered on, enlightening John and Irene, and the packed room where they stood. </p><p>From ground to ceiling, stashes upon stashes of files and crates crowded the space. The two friends watched it in silence for a few seconds, absorbing the view and getting used to the lightning. </p><p>Irene was the first to rouse from their shock. She walked over to a crate stuffed with dry grass, peeking inside. It was empty. John’s interest was piqued by a lectern in the far back of the room. He avoided thick spiderwebs, weary of anything dangly and elongated that could pass for an arachnid. </p><p>“Whoa! There’s a file on Hussie! Apparently he has a contract with the devil,” Irene read from a page she picked up somewhere. </p><p>“Does it really say that?” John mumbled, crouching behind the lectern to get a good look at the file laying under it. </p><p>“No, that’s just my Homestuck self-insert reference.” John heard a smacking sound. He stood up, alarmed, bumping his head on the underside of the lectern. </p><p>“What was that?”</p><p>“I facepalmed. I keep making Homestuck jokes when it’s irrelevant. Ugh.”</p><p>“Don’t beat yourself up over it. I tell you, I <em>don’t</em> mind. If anything, the jokes lighten up the mood. This isn’t the most comfortable room I’ve ever been in, so it’s nice. I’ve no idea who Hussie is, but that doesn’t bother me, either.”</p><p>“You’re too nice John.”</p><p>“Well, will you tell me who Hussie is?” John said, hissing when his fingers brushed the sore spot on the back of his head. He lost sight of Irene behind a glass wall covered in rags of clothes. He could hear her shuffle behind it. </p><p>“Hussie is the motherfucker who made Homestuck,” she explained. John got to examining the file he got a hold of. It said TOP SECRET on the front page, in red capital letters and all. Fancy. “And well, he’s a chill guy I’d say. In the end, he’s got a knack for creating a compelling story and universe. But he also has a horse kink, so…”</p><p>“Ah… Okay. It would be funny if he wrote himself into the comic.” </p><p>“Ha! He actually did. Damn, I haven’t gotten to that part yet. I’m re-reading it.”</p><p>“Wow. Well. I don’t know what to say, but maybe we could read it together? It actually sounds interesting, but I never kicked myself into reading it alone.”</p><p>Irene gasped and her head appeared from behind the nearest wall of crates. “Would you?”</p><p>“Yeah, why not? Sherlock may scoff at it, but I like to give things a chance before writing them off.”</p><p>“Aw, you really are sweet. I feel like I could get diabetes.”</p><p>“That’s not me, that’s the jelly worms you stuffed yourself with.”</p><p>“Oh. You’re right. Still better than the slurpee brain freeze.”</p><p>“Yeah, but your teeth are going to regret it anyhow.”</p><p>Irene waved a hand at that. “Nothing my trust fund won’t cover. I can get prosthetic teeth without regrets.”</p><p>“OH MY GOD!” John shouted, startling Irene into knocking over an antique vase. “Look at this! We found it! We found the true founder of Reichenbach Falls!”</p><p>Irene hurried to stand at John’s side to read the file. It was quite a thick folder, but over half of it consisted of tax evasion documents. However, John dug up what they were looking for this whole time. They read the document on the real founder together, breathless.</p><p>
  <strong>THE O’LEARY COVER-UP</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Let it be known that Balexander O’Leary, famous in his native Reichenbach Falls for rolling down the hills stark naked and let wild racoons clothe him until he got fleas and for drinking sewage water, thinking it was a magic potion granting him powers to see Jesus Christ and fight him until his second coming on Earth, was chosen to become the first US-allowed official mayor of Reichenbach Falls. O’Leary often spoke in a series of babbles and unintelligible yells, usually screaming his trademark phrases: ‘That sign can’t stop me because I can’t read!’ and ‘Baghferumehamamahaaaaaa! The winged oats are attacking!’’</em>
</p><p>“Oh my God, he predicted a meme <em>and</em> spoke in keysmash?” Irene said in awe. John grunted a response, his brain focused on the rest of the text.</p><p><em>‘The fabled founder of Reichenbach Falls was, in fact, a fraud. His last miserable, and completely unaccounted for moments on Earth were spent suffocating in a barrel filled with pickled water as he attempted to transcend to the lost world of Atlantis. Whether he’d achieved it or not, no one cares, because Balexander O’Leary was a </em>[CENSORED] <em>hated by everyone who got a whiff of his cologne and personality. He will not be missed. </em></p><p>
  <em>‘The true founder of the town appears to be a mysterious man who allegedly travelled here from the future year of 2012. Also known as Alexander Hirsch, or King Awesome-Sauce, the eccentric miracle man went crazy the first night he discovered the town’s whereabouts. He claimed that he had had a bet with a friend in the future, which consisted of burning his old, ugly red jacket that was burned under a Full Moon while Hirsch and his friends danced around the bonfire, chanting Satanic verses such as: ‘Hola-Ola-Antilopa-Mola-Dona-Pepsi-Cola!’ or ‘We’re all weevils in a captain’s biscuit!’ In other words, he had sold his soul to an unspecified deity or demon, and thus Reichenbach Falls was created. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Hirsch was also famous for riding into the White House and battling Thomas Jefferson and his pet alligator with an army of alloted deer, three of which were constantly addicted to petrol. Hirsch claimed his German surname granted him the magical ability of a Disney Princess, and used his powers most accordingly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Unfortunately, Hirsch’s 21st century antics held no purpose in the late 1700s, and he went crazy in less than a month, drawing odd sketches of two siblings in a mystery town. He was impeached by a group of thug squirrels who took over Reichenbach Falls in an unsuccessful attempt to establish a forestocracy as a protest against deer who licked their nuts (unspecified which kind). The squirrels were gunned by woodpeckers who avenged the local mafia family of beavers, and peace was once again established, but in the meantime, Alexander Hirsch disappeared. The last time the locals had seen him was on the back of a half-paraplegic deer with abhorrent singing abilities as Hirsch yodeled a weirdly familiar theme song of his made-up world.’</em>
</p><p>The entry ended there, supplied with illustrations of Balexander O’Leary, a very feral and grumpy-looking man. Under him was Alexander Hirsch, sporting a spectacular goatee. </p><p>Irene and John stared at the page, speechless. Neither of them moved for a while. It was John who broke the silence.</p><p>“That was… I expected everything, but not… Did it say <em>forestocracy</em>?”</p><p>“Yes, we have thug forest fauna and flora -- we found out our first week here. But -- what happened to Hirsch?”</p><p>At that moment, the lights flickered, eerily reminding them of their whereabouts. John gripped the sides of the lectern tighter so much his knuckles whitened, but the light resumed after that. But to their right, a glimpse of something glittery and glowing caught his eye. </p><p>“I’ve no idea, but do you see that?” he said, coming closer to the luminescent object hidden away. Three quarters of it were covered by a dirty brown sheet. Something told John he should tear it down, so he did. “It’s Hirsch!”</p><p>Irene let out an explicit, albeit authentic curse in German and ran up to John. Indeed, Alexander Hirsch stood in front of them in all his bared beauty… trapped in what appeared to be tempered chocolate. Essentially, he resembled a chocolate bunny, except he was a human, who apparently also time travelled, and could peruse deer like Aurora or Snow White. He was frozen in a posture that seemed as though he was dancing disco at the time of his preservation. </p><p>“What even <em>is</em> this town anymore?” John heard himself say as he listed through the file on the conspiracy again. “Aha! It says here that Hirsch believed one can hibernate or survive if they get covered by tempered mixture of dark and milk chocolate like a Kinder Egg. <em>What</em>.”</p><p>“Unfortunately, no such thing will help <em>you</em>,” a familiar voice coming from the darkened, shadowed entrance announced. John quickly crowded Irene behind him, shielding her and the chocolate statue of Hirsch from the unknown threat. </p><p>“Is that…?” Irene started, but had no need to finish. From the shadows came forward a tall figure, limping on one leg. John’s heart skipped a beat -- it was the hooded person he saw prior to descending down here. </p><p>Out in the room, raising their head, John and Irene got a good look at their foe, their ultimate nemesis, a poster face glued to an unseen surface enough of a telling sign who it was.</p><p>Nicolas Cage. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*gasp* IT HIM!<br/></p><p>addendum: Alex Hirsch is the creator of Gravity Falls, and I thought I'd do him justice and make him... you will see next chapter. King Awesome-Sauce is his legit nick and there's a video of how he burnt his jacket under full moon after Disney gave his show the green light. In other words, he and I have very similar ways of our minds work, I think, so wait until I end up in the fic, if even........ ;D<br/>updated: 10.3. 2021<br/>word count: 6947<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very Cage filled day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. National Treasure-Trove V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is Cage, freedom, and a freak</p><p>episode 8, chapter 5</p><p>-surprise update no. 2!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey peeps!! I'm updating a day early because biology and chemistry will try to collectively kick my ass this week, so have at thee!<br/>let's see what Cage will do this time, shall we?<br/>thanks for reading &amp; special thanks to bee, dee, and Cini Minis because they're always good for breakfast<br/>enjoy!</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You?!” Incredulity evident in Irene’s voice, she took a further step to the back. They were caged in here, the literal Cage blocking their only way out. “But… We’ve burnt you!”</p><p>“That’s where you’re wrong, <strong>kiddo</strong>,” Cage said gravely, limping along a wall of carton boxes. He took his time, looming over them from a distance. His face was mostly hooded still, though the new body he possessed was larger and more coordinated than the previous knitted incarnation. “I am <strong>indestructible</strong>. Behold my new, <strong>stronger </strong>form!”</p><p>Cage threw back his black hood, stunning the young adults momentarily. What ought to have been a spectacular revelation worthy of an Oscar nomination, however, turned into a Meme nomination. John stifled a snort, biting his lower lip, but Irene utterly lost it. Her knees hit the floor, heaving breaths escaping her throat as she laughed hysterically at the sight: the picture that John had seen printed in the library was now plastered to the head of whatever Cage possessed, the funny thing being that he’d hung it upside down, and the image was blurry. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“What? What’s wrong? Is my face torn?” </p><p>Irene struggled to breathe and speak, ragged choking sounds that reminded John of paraplegic seals being the only form of communication she could manage. John pinched the bridge of his nose and giggled, no longer able to suppress the ridiculousness of their situation. Dread prickled his skin and roused goosebumps on his flesh, his body’s defenses picking up on Cage’s demonic presence, but John’s brain? That part of him transformed the neuronal intake and transmissions into laughter, and memes. </p><p>“You… Your… The picture,” John said, forefinger doing a circular motion as it pointed at the demon’s face. Stiff hands touched the paper, incomprehensive of the hilarious mistake. “It’s upside down.”</p><p>“<strong>Oh wow.</strong> Great! I’m the subject of mockery, jeer, and burlesque laughter of mortals! I <strong>knew</strong> something was amiss,” Cage grunted, chastising himself with a smack on his wooden forehead. The paper crumpled in the spot of the impact, trails of creases painting its undertones. “Anyhow. I’m back for my revenge, and none of you <strong>cretins </strong>will stop me.”</p><p>“I’m <em>so</em> scared,” Irene said, finally calming down. It was hard to take the psychopathic spirit seriously when he was upside down. John knew they shouldn’t underestimate him, though. The last time he fought Cage he almost fell into a pit and got cut by a real katana more than once. “What are you going to do? Sneer on us? Reference Con Air? Or worse, Homestuck?”</p><p>“No, <strong>I’m going to get rid of you.</strong>”</p><p>The air temperature lowered, Cage’s words cutting deep into their bones, and the atmosphere shifted, gloom and menace hanging above their heads like stalactites that will crumble any second now. John and Irene sobered up, the former squaring his shoulders should Cage attack. </p><p>Sooner than their nemesis could act on any of his thoughts and plans, though, Irene screamed, scrambling to her feet and drifting aside from the chocolate statue of Alexander Hirsch. “Ew! Why is everything alive?” His toes curled, the choco mixture melted where Irene’s palm rested for balance minutes ago. </p><p>Hirsch’s limbs vibrated, a low grumble rising from his chest as his figure rocked from side to side. Even Cage stayed where he stood, but whether he was stunned or merely observing what the fuck was going on and stealing his spotlight was up to interpretation. </p><p>John pulled Irene behind him again, positioning them so that he could sprint in whatever direction from which their threat came first. Hirsch’s grumbles grew more distressed, and then his limbs twitched, the chocolate confines breaking into pieces, falling off like shattered shards of glass into a tasteless heap on the grimy floor. </p><p>“Phew! That got claustrophobic,” Alexander Hirsch said, running a hand through his messy hair. He remained oblivious to the three other persons in front of him as he brushed off the last bits of chocolate, scratching his goatee for good measure. He jumped on the balls of his feet, cheerily greeting them as it dawned on him that he wasn’t alone, unaffected by Cage or their shocked faces. “Hi! Do you live here? Sorry for the mess, it was the only way I could protect myself from the diabetic squirrel mafia boss. Anyway, how are you?”</p><p>“Uhm…”</p><p>“Wait, is that Nicolas Cage? What year is this?”</p><p>“Twenty-twenty-three,” Cage supplied, but Irene cut him off.</p><p>“Bullshit, it’s twenty-twenty-two.” She squinted, counting it in her head. “Yeah. How come this… stuff worked? Shouldn’t you be dead?”</p><p>“The squirrels want you to think that,” Hirsch replied, glancing sideways as if a mob of animals was supposed to drag him into the shadows and beat him to a plump. “But no. You see, my dear deer told me this would work -- and it did! Never underestimate der Hirsch.”</p><p>“Oh my God, he speaks German,” Irene whispered, and John’s brain gave out. <em>What the fuck is this day, even? Did I get hit in the head last night?</em> </p><p>“What’s Nicholas Cage doing here?”</p><p>“Thank you for asking,” Cage said uncharacteristically politely. “I’m here to exterminate these two obnoxious younglings. Wipe them from the face of the Earth. Kill them. And this uncovering that they did? Oh, I’ll get <strong>so</strong> much praise for it.”</p><p>“Oh yeah? How?” John’s chin jerked up, arms crossing over his chest. As far as he observed Cage, he was equipped with no weapon, and whatever body or thing he resided in, John was positive he’d tackle him without a problem. </p><p>“Easy,” Caged purred, inching closer. “My new form is stronger than that humiliating knitted doll prison in which I rotted for two decades. This? This is a wooden figurine from a nearby mall. You see, my spirit is almost indestructible. A gasoline fire will do nothing to weaken it. It only <strong>angers</strong> me. My physical body may wither, but not my essence. It took some time, but I caught onto this figurine and slowly reanimated. I’m still a bit wobbly, but by the end of the day I’ll be able to perform gymnastic tricks with the elegance of a ballerina.”</p><p>“How scary.”</p><p>“<strong>Silence</strong>! Anyway, I caught a whim of your yellow and red energies. They’re obnoxiously loud. Hard to miss, really.” Wait… This isn’t the first time John heard about the colours of ‘energies’ -- the mirror yesterday said something very similar! What did it mean? Was it a supernatural way of telling who is who? “And I followed you. First to the library, then here. You almost got me because I was getting impatient, but you gave way and now we’re here.”</p><p>“That doesn’t explain why you should get praise for… whatever you think you’re worth.”</p><p>“I’m getting there. It’s simple -- I’ll kill you two, get a hold of that file, and show it to Greg.”</p><p>“NOW you want to show yourself to him?”</p><p>“It’s been ages, Johnny-boy! I’ve been around for longer than any of you, I deserve recognition from my best friend!”</p><p>“No -- you need a therapist and a bath in holy water.”</p><p>“<strong>Shut up!</strong> I’ll leave you for the last kill, I <strong>promise </strong>you. Moreover, Greg hates the O’Learys -- once I go up to him and show him the file. That way he can expose their conspiracy and bring them to a downfall, and he will get the justice he always longed for. That way we cleanse Reichenbach Falls of their stupid oligarchy, Greg will be my full-time best friend, and no one will stand in our way!”</p><p>A fist shook at the ceiling in a victorious way to emphasise Cage’s point. Alexander Hirsch clapped. John and Irene’s necks turned to the right, glaring at him, but he appeared nonplussed. </p><p>“So what do we do now?” Hirsch asked, honestly curious and he hugged both Irene and John around the shoulders. He smelled of chocolate, but not the good kind -- more like that stale chocolate you get from a great-aunt at an annual family meeting that she kept stashed in her purse and forgot about it, and now wanted to get rid of it somehow. </p><p>Nicolas Cage’s head tipped to the side in a contemplative matter, a deep hum reaching John’s ears. The figurine in front of them looked around, crouching only to stand up and yield an axe. John’s eyelids shut closed, cursing the absence of his trusty shovel. </p><p>“Now the game <strong>begins</strong>.”</p><p>“John?” Fingers tugged at John’s sleeve, Irene’s distressed blue gaze searching his own for a plan of action. John’s mind was scattered, but thankfully Cage was slow among the clutter that separated the two of them and Hirsch from the cursed actor’s twin spirit. Hirsch didn’t seem the least threatened by the maniac, humming a melody to himself. </p><p>
  <em>Think, Watson, think! What would Sherlock do to gain time? </em>
</p><p>John went through every instance when Sherlock solved a case. The most recent one was that with Freddie Mercury -- he basically connected the dots of shared interests and formed them into a coherent plan that worked well. However, Cage was not one for sharing. Then there was Gloria Scott, but back then Sherlock lost his nerve and angered Gloria further to see where her powers would take them; he even lied to her. She did unleash the undead at them -- but she was also distracted. Maybe that’s it! The only problem was that Cage was too set on his plan once he got into it. He had to turn it the other way. </p><p>“Mr Hirsch?” he said to the man between him and Irene. </p><p>“Alex is fine,” he said warmly, watching Cage struggle to walk around a stack of books and a bear trap. </p><p>“Okay -- Alex. Listen, Nic Cage isn’t who you think he is.”</p><p>“Hm, yeah. He looks a little lost to me.”</p><p>“He’s a bit of a psycho, but anyway -- you said you ran away from squirrels?”</p><p>“Yes! Foul thieves! They always snatched my tuna sandwiches. Unacceptable! The only thing I wanted to do was draw a Disney TV show about a mysterious town, but then a dude in a bowtie handcuffed me and left me to bargain with the beavers here, two centuries ago. My contract with Satan wasn’t on then, so I had to improvise, and the deer helped. But the squirrels! Wretched!”</p><p>John barely followed Alex’s train of thought, but he pressed on. “Yeah, well. Nic Cage is working for them.”</p><p>Time halted for s split second. John felt the energy shift, and even Cage picked up on it. In a matter of moments, Alex Hirsch grew agitated, his primary focus settling on the wicked being before them. </p><p>“Squirrels, you say?” said Hirsch in a deadly whisper. He left his position between John and Irene and disappeared in the back, only to reappear with a bat in hand. “There are more behind the giant toxic plant that will make you poop bricks!”</p><p>Nicolas Cage, in the meantime, cursed to himself, unaware of the blow he was about to sustain. “Damnit! How are you supposed to move in this stupid body? It’s like walking a table on a leash… This is nuts! Just wait until I --”</p><p>“We accept no nuts from the squirrels as a payment, sir!” Hirsch announced, delivering a perfect swing that sent Cage’s figurine body into a swirl. The dead weight thumped against the cold floor, disorienting Cage. </p><p>“What are you --”</p><p>“DEATH TO FORESTOCRACY!”</p><p>“Irene run!” John grabbed her by the wrist, but not before he found a bat just in case. Irene in turn grabbed Alex by the rim of his red collar on his shirt, tugging him along. Now that he also pissed Cage off, he was in danger. Only at the beginning of the tunnel had John realised they could’ve disarmed Cage -- it was too late for that now. John urged Irene up the ladder first, putting the backpack over her shoulders. Then followed Alex, who was fuming because of the unknown, hopefully long dead rodents. There were enough killers to deal with in one day. To think they only wanted to dig up dirt on Janine and ended up being chased by Nicolas Cage <em>again… </em>Well, that was their fucking luck. </p><p>When Alex and Irene were safely out, John fastened his bat in his belt, ready to bolt right up. </p><p>“<strong>Not so fast.</strong>” An axe swooshed next by his right shoulder, missing him by centimeters. Spark flew out from the place of impact with the metal wall, and John let go of the ladder steps. Nic Cage caught up quickly, his poster face hanging in half where the glue no longer adhered to the wood underneath. The demon outstretched his arm, the axe levitating upward and back into his open awaiting palm. </p><p>
  <em>Shitshitshit.</em>
</p><p>Unable to get out without risking getting cut into pieces by a maniac, John let Cage get closer. He tuned out Irene’s distressed calls of his name, fingers itching for his bat. He assessed Cage’s stance: body rigid, the wood not fully animated yet, but the rage within made up for that. If he’s fast, Cage won’t be able to hit him with the axe, he’ll knock him over and hopefully take the sharp tool from him. </p><p>John’s knees bent, but suddenly, Cage charged at him, a battlecry coming through the half of his upside-down face. John barely had time to react to the onslaught, darting to his left as the axe hit the metal ladder steps again. He drew the bat, raising it in kind as Cage yielded his weapon repeatedly. Doing this, John couldn’t tackle the fucker to the ground and disarm him.</p><p>At last, he got the opportunity -- just as he blocked another attack against his mortal person, the axe dug into the narrow wood. Surprisingly, the bat withheld the pressure and didn’t break. Eyes almost crossing, John stuck out his tongue in concentration, grunting as he pushed the heavy weight of Cage back and slammed him against the wall. He twisted the bat and the axe and tugged, freeing it from Cage’s mechanical grasp and making a run for it. </p><p>John leapt up the ladder, Irene and Alex cheering him on while Cage charged at him akin to an enraged bull in Spain. Cage almost caught John’s ankle, but his rigid legs gave out and he slumped down, his head hitting the ladder steps with precise rhythm. </p><p>Two pairs of hands hauled John out of the secret tunnel underneath the statue on the cemetery, and he found himself on his knees, panting hard. Irene crouched next to him, her palm resting on his back serving as an anchor. </p><p>“Foul squirrel enemies,” Alex said, spitting down the trapdoor. “That’s for Mister Beaver-Boo!”</p><p>“Alex, we have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Irene told the goatee man. She offered John a hand to help him stand up. “You okay?”</p><p>“As much as you can be after seeing that nightmare fuel again,” John huffed, letting out a weak laugh. He tossed the axe along with the bat into the secret tunnel beneath. “We’ve got to close the trapdoor. Where was the button?”</p><p>“I don’t know, I just kicked the pedestal and it happened!”</p><p>“Cool, let me kick the <em>shit </em>out of it.”</p><p>“No matter!” Alex said, the corners of his mouth drawing back in a grin. He tiptoed to the statue, glancing up at the dude, as though it was supposed to come to life any second now. Alex pushed a square in the top right corner, and the trapdoor released a rusty squeak, its opposite sides drawing in to the other to close the secret entrance. “There. I remember installing it here so that the beaver family could hide… Shame the squirrels got them first.”</p><p>“Alex for the last time, the squirrels are long dead!” Irene said, impatience seeping into her voice. No wonder, she must be tired of their ‘case’. John was too. What he wanted to do for the rest of the day once they got back in the Shack was take a shower and cuddle Sherlock in his bed, and fall asleep like that. Relax. Ah, yes. That. </p><p>“The squirrels never die,” Alex said, unperturbed by Irene’s mood. His mouth opened to say something else, maybe develop his idea further, but he was interrupted by Irene’s and John’s screams.</p><p>A dangly hand rose from the closing secret entrance, and soon Cage’s head and half of his torso popped up into view as well. “<strong>You won’t escape me that easily!</strong>” he growled, pushing himself up, the other hand holding the axe. </p><p><em>God fucking damnit why the fuck did I throw it back there?!</em> John whined inside his head.</p><p>Fortunately the trapdoor collided with the wooden figurine, trapping Cage in-between. Unable to move into either direction, the demon cursed, swinging the axe in the process. Just as John’s legs twitched in his direction to kick him six feet under, Alex beat him to it. </p><p>Hirsch fervently whacked Cage wherever his own bat managed to hit the cursed spirit. He knocked the axe out of his grasp. “Hey! Quit it! I am a nominated actor!”</p><p>“So said Squeaky McSquirrel, and yet he gunned my friends over stupid forestocracy election! I should’ve stayed in LA and never should’ve sold my soul to Crowley. What did I get? A confirmation to make my TV show, but I was thrown into the past, smell like a Kinder Egg from Europe, and I’m ten years late! Or eleven, I don’t even know!”</p><p>“Like I give a damn about your failed career! I have a best friend to bail out of jail!”</p><p>“Wait what?” John blurted out, frowning at the scenery before them. “What do you mean ‘bail out’?”</p><p>Cage lifted his head, angling it so that the twisted lopsided face was visible to John. “Greg was arrested for cursing in a twenty-first century fashion in front of children.”</p><p>John facepalmed, startling Irene next to him into a pained gasp of sympathy. In that moment, a cracking sound prevented him from swearing out loud -- the trapdoor evidently had enough of Cage blocking their way and snapped shut despite his obnoxiousness. </p><p>Cage didn’t cry out, because he wasn’t human and possessed no nervous system. Instead, he saw it as victory, no matter that he had to use his arms to crawl around, and an angry vengeful Alex Hirsch beating him with a piece of elongated wood. </p><p>“Now I can get you and then save Greg!” Cage said, completely oblivious to the pair of beavers that snuck up on him from behind the statue guarding the secret underground tunnel. The beavers let out a chattering growl, one of them sinking their teeth into his arm. The second beaver sat atop what remained of Cage’s back and imaginary shoulder blades, stifling his movement. “What is this? I thought you were dead!”</p><p>“Oh! Descendants of my friends!” Alex gasped, voice trembling and full of emotion. He kneeled next to them. “What is that? Oh yeah, it’s me Alex, personally.”</p><p>John and Irene watched Alex and the beavers exchange incorrigible words and sentences as Cage struggled to escape. “What even…” </p><p>“No idea,” John said, wishing to get back to Sherlock and his comfortable bed. Maybe this <em>was</em> a dream and they haven’t left the Shack yet, but he’ll find out sooner or later. </p><p>Alex nodded to something the beaver said to him, chattering his teeth in response. He rose to his feet, shaking the beaver’s paw. “Of course! You can take him and use him to build the dam. We won’t mind. He worked for the <em>squirrels</em>. Just make sure you take him apart properly, alright?”</p><p>The beavers bid them all goodbye at that, yellow teeth chattering, dragging the upper half of Nicolas Cage’s borrowed body into the dark forest nearby. “Hey! Don’t bite that, it’s mahogany!”</p><p>“Adieu, you fucker!” Irene called after him, waving him a farewell. Cage grabbed at the grass, leaving a trail of torn out grass and soil after himself. “Don’t show up until we’re dead, okay?”</p><p>“You think this is over? Wait until I possess an even <strong>better </strong>body! Next time I won’t be indisposed by… by <strong>beavers</strong>! Even less so by time travelling artists from LA! Greg will be <strong>my</strong> friend!”</p><p>His threats died at last.</p><p>“That was….” John said once the air cleared out. For the first time since leaving the library he felt like he could breathe freely. “Absolutely fucking crazy. I need hot chocolate.”</p><p>“Then how about we head to town?” Alex suggested, entwining his arms under Irene’s and John’s, dragging them out of the cemetery. The dead surely had a party listening to Cage’s threats. “There’s a nice place at the square serving the best hot chocolate in town.”</p><p>John knew which store he meant. The trouble was -- the O’Learys rebuilt it into a boutique. “Uhm… It’s not there anymore. It closed two years ago, I think. Not enough money to keep it up anymore. You know… inflation and that sort of stuff.”</p><p>“What? Oh… That’s a bummer. Huh. Well, then, I should skedaddle.”</p><p>“Are you leaving the town? But you’re the founder!” Irene said, stepping over a large puddle on the sidewalk. They both felt better the bigger distance they put between themselves and the graveyard. </p><p>“I have to get back to LA and see what happened in my seven-year absence,” Alex explained airily. “I have to call up my friend Crowley and meet him for coffee or something. He owes me one for this. He and I burnt my red plaid jacket that I owned that he’d so passionately hated and then we danced around its burning corpse under the Full Moon. I think the squirrels told Balexander to appropriate my life stories to make him more likeable or something, so he may have said he’d done it. We also got into a fistfight one night. Oh, and I’m not the ‘original’ founder. There was this girl, bonkers, let me tell you -- I’d think she was high on drugs with the stuff she wrote, always writing and jotting down quotes and taking inspiration from the crazy stuff that she witnessed. What was her name? I forgot. Fun times. You might find her one day, though. Ah, there goes my ride!”</p><p>Hirsch ran up to a deer at the side on the road, hopping on its back. He petted his fur. John doubted his sanity, his right eye twitching. Four hours of sleep weren’t his cup of tea. Irene’s eyebrows raised, but she made no comment of the mounted deer.</p><p>“Wait, we’d like to talk to you more!” she said, running up to Alex. “How did you get to the past? And how did you know the chocolate would preserve you? Where’s your friend, the girl? Is she conserved in a Kinder chocolate prison too? And why are you going to LA?”</p><p>“There was a man in a bowtie and a sassy woman that took me here, the deer told me, and I have business to conduct and the Devil to kick in the shins! The founder is a mystery, I’ve no clue where she is, but she’s not dead. Remember kids -- violence is the answer! Woohoo!”</p><p>Words of wisdom out in the open, Alexander Hirsch patted the deer on its head and the duo ran into the forest, Alex singing the same melody he did in the underground room. Irene looked at John, wincing in sympathy as she saw the exhausted bags under his eyes. </p><p>“Let’s bail Greg out of jail and get you to Sherlock, shall we?”</p><p>~</p><p>Sherlock dropped a fourth folder on Donovan’s desk. In conclusion: the day was a success. He solved three cold cases, helped Donovan sort out two active cases, and managed to find a thief of the station’s snack bar at the reception (it was Dimmock, but only when he was stressed -- which was every other day). </p><p>The dopamine was immeasurable, and Sherlock was happy with his achievements for the day. Most of the clues were hidden in plain sight, and he more than once had to suppress a derogatory snort. No, Donovan was a competent police officer, but she oftentimes rushed through the files and facts. However, Sherlock couldn’t blame her. The whole structure of their department was similar to driving a car that was constantly on fire while someone kept trying to extinguish it with gasoline. And her colleagues… were not the brightest sunshines of their individual solar systems.</p><p>“Done?” Donovan asked, lips quirking upwards. Her chair squeaked as she leaned back, putting her feet up. While Sherlock made his way through the files, she finished her paperwork and filed in his observations. “I must admit, this is impressive.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Sherlock said, feeling pleased. “I’m hoping to become a Consulting Detective once I’m done with my degree.”</p><p>“A Detective? Like a Private Investigator?”</p><p>Sherlock’s curls flounced as he shook his head. “Not really. It’s similar, but I’d be the first Consulting Detective out there. I could help police in London or wherever I end up, but preferably there. God knows Scotland Yard is always in need of help.”</p><p>“A bunch of buffoons, eh?” Donovan smirked, motioning Sherlock to sit back down. “Tell me about it. We could upgrade and improve lots of things here, but the O’Learys won’t give us the leeway and some other legal crap won’t let us either. I suspect the O’Leary family cashes on tax evasion, but no one can get to them to confirm that. They pay everyone off.”</p><p>“Even you?”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re racist as fuck. They don’t care for folks like me, or Mama Odie. But they shut up and mind their business to look good. It was worse in the past decades, but they calmed down.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded, filing this away for later research. He could ask Kate too. But for now, he had other things in mind. Namely, the lost case of Henry. But how should he start the conversation? Sherlock assumed he’d earned enough trust with Donovan to ask about her past partner. </p><p>“There’s one more case I’m curious about,” he said, looking up at Donovan. </p><p>“Oh?” She combed through the piles on her desk. “Is it the one with the nudist gardener or --”</p><p>“No. Uhm… It’s concerning Henry, actually.”</p><p>If a needle dropped, he’d have been able to hear it ping. Donovan stared at him, confusion slowly furrowing her perfectly drawn eyebrows. There was hesitation in her eyes, and Sherlock hurried to push his point forward, panicking. He badly wanted to help her solve Henry’s case, the more challenging it proved to be, the better. </p><p>“No, hear me out!” he pleaded, standing up. “I tried talking to Henry today. I left to look for John and my step-sister, but met him instead. He seems to be stuck in a simpler state of mind, but that state is very fragile. When I tried asking about his personal relationships, he freaked out, saying he doesn’t remember his friends. The question is: what would make Henry forget his friends? What would make a person forget their life? A curse? No, ridiculous. Fear, perhaps. People respond differently to stress under different circumstances, and numerous accounts have said that Henry was beyond terrified on the day when he was found. I thought that I could help you look into his case again while I’m in Reichenbach Falls. You’ve seen what I’m capable of -- I <em>can</em> be of help.”</p><p>Donovan’s gaze followed him as he paced up and down in her office. Her face was blank, unreadable. “Some things are better left as they are, Holmes.”</p><p>“I mean what I said -- you’ve seen the proof!” Sherlock said, gesturing at the files on her desk. “I <em>am</em> able to aid you in this, for as long as I’m here and even after. I know you want to help Henry as much as I do. You’ve been engaged, that’s motivation enough. Plus, you’re one of the few people in town who treat Henry with respect in spite of his memory impairment --”</p><p>“Who told you about the engagement?” Donovan’s voice was sharp, and Sherlock barely suppressed his wince at her sudden change of tone and mood. </p><p>“Dimmock,” he swallowed, but hurried to add, “and I deduced the rest. Well, I would have anyway. Your right forefinger constantly touches the ring finger on your left hand. People usually don’t have that reflex unless they wear rings and suddenly stop. It’s a habit I observed in my mother as well. Given that you and Henry were engaged, it would make sense you would remove the ring after he lost memory of you. You also glance at the spot with regret, though that can be summoned by many emotional responses…”</p><p>“<em>Stop it</em>,” Donovan hissed, slamming both palms on the table. Sherlock stepped back instinctively, his defenses rebooting. “Whatever you’re about to say, <em>don’t</em>. I don’t care you helped with the cases here, you’re not getting Henry’s case. It’s a lost one.”</p><p>“But you didn’t --”</p><p>“<em>Shut it!</em> Henry isn’t going to come back to his old self. Whatever trauma he’s been through, he’s not going to return to his old self. He’s not going to remember his father, or Dimmock, or <em>me</em>.”</p><p>“I showed you my methods of working, you <em>know</em> I could uncover something --”</p><p>“No! Don’t. I don’t care. You’re sticking your nose into private business here. We’ve even had the FBI look into this to no avail, do you honestly think a university student can unravel clues from a two years old case? No, nobody is that good. You’ve done a good job with the local queries, I’ll give you that, but this? No. Don’t get your ego that high. Truth be told, I’d think you’re weird if it weren’t for your manners and you danced in here spilling information about Henry and me. No one solves cases <em>that </em>quickly. One would think you’re the culprit. Here’s a word of advice from me, Sherlock Holmes: <em>stay in your line</em>. Otherwise, people will think that you’re a little freaky. I appreciate your concern and your gift of observation, but this is beyond inappropriate.”</p><p>Sherlock blinked, a pit sinking into his stomach. The breath he let out through his nostrils was ragged, and he bit his lower lip, closing his eyes. How many times has he heard that before? <em>Freak</em>. That wasn’t new. And yet it still stung his fractured little heart. </p><p>“Sorry, but that’s how the world works,” Donovan said. She grabbed her keys from a drawer and walked to the doors. Her eyes were glassy. Sherlock followed her mutely. “I’m not getting Henry back and you’re not getting his case. It stays in the unsolved category, because we have <em>zero</em> trace and no witnesses regarding what had happened to him. I’m going to get Greg so that you can go home. I appreciate your help, and I wish your career all the best. Just know when to stop, Holmes. <em>Don’t</em> get involved with Henry for his own good -- don’t scare him, don’t stress him.”</p><p>She left for the prison cells, and Sherlock’s steps trailed towards the exit. Out in the fresh air, he absentmindedly walked down the stairs and stopped on the sidewalk. He was so sure his plan was going to work out, but basic human interaction has failed him. </p><p>“Sherlock!” John’s voice tore him out of a deep corner where his mind almost slipped. He turned on the balls of his feet to face his boyfriend. The whiplash he’s received was pushed back as he got lost in John’s warm smile. “Hey, you. This was a crazy day.”</p><p>“Where have you two been?” Sherlock asked, pulling John into an embrace, melting into it immediately. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach when John wrapped his strong arms around him and locked them together. </p><p>“I’ll tell you at home,” John said into the fabric of Sherlock’s hoodie. His head tilted, and he nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck. They swayed backwards, and he had to do a weird tap dance to prevent them from falling over. “But we solved a case, if you can call it that.”</p><p>“Really? You and Irene?”</p><p>“Incredible, I know. But I think half of it was my exhausted brain making shit up.”</p><p>Sherlock smiled into John’s hair, kissing the top of his head. “Should I feel left out?”</p><p>“Nah, pretty boy. Wanted to call you but we either got sidetracked or had no signal. You didn’t miss much, just a crazy man that rode a deer.”</p><p>“Okay, I certainly wouldn’t want to be there,” Sherlock decided, thinking back to the day when he stood face-to-face with a junkie deer high on petrol fumes. “Where’s Irene?”</p><p>John didn’t have to answer for them to find out. His step-sister has loudly called Janine, who happened to be crossing the street to get into her family’s fancy car. She ran up to the girl, holding a manila folder. </p><p>“Hi, Janine! Remember how you called me silly like, two hours ago? Yeah anyway, John and I uncovered your family’s conspiracy. Your great-great-whatever grandfather had actually been a complete loser and a local nudist who drank sewage to see Jesus and spoke in keysmash! Shocking, I know. Who would’ve guessed you have a dirty family secret, right? Anyway, we also found the <em>real</em> town’s founder, Alexander Hirsch, only to find out that a woman has actually been the original founder, but there’s nothing to fulfill that claim yet. Alex has been mummified in chocolate and hated squirrels and --”</p><p>Janine let out a shrill laugh to stop Irene from continuing. “Are you kidding me? What kind of youtube hoax have you watched? Honestly, girl, grow up!”</p><p>Janine left for their car, flipping her hair out of her stupid face. Maybe it wasn’t stupid, but Sherlock certainly thought so. Irene stood abandoned on the other side of the street, but her expression betrayed no emotion. He and John jogged up to her.</p><p>“I thought you were going to snatch her wig with that file?” John said, an adorable crease forming between his eyebrows. Sherlock wanted to kiss it away. </p><p>“You know, fuck that,” Irene said happily, giving Sherlock the file. He started reading through it, John tugging him closer with an arm wrapped around his waist sending another swarm of butterflies flutter in his stomach. “Today’s meeting with Nicolas Cage and Alexander Hirsch has taught me one thing: being weird worries anyone else but you, so why give a fuck? I’ll be weirding Janine out on purpose for as long as I live. Being a Homestuck fan will forever be my curse, why not embrace it?”</p><p>John hummed in agreement, yawning into a closed fist. Sherlock snapped the file closed after taking pictures of the documents and straightened his back, checking where Janine had gone. His pent up frustration rose upon seeing the girl’s treatment of his dear step-sibling, and the conflict with Donovan didn’t help. He had to take it out on something -- or someone. “<em>Well</em>, I haven’t learned <em>anything</em>.”</p><p>Sherlock ran up to Janine’s awaiting car, fluttering the stack of papers in front of her face through the rolled down window. “Hi, Sherlock Holmes is the name. I couldn’t help but notice your insecurity and how you let it override your senses. You’re an only child, raised to be perfect by your rich society’s standards, but you’re unhappy. Your mother is a pathetic liar and a cheater, your father is a gambler and a snitch, not to mention the not-so-subtle racism running in your family. You think you’re content, but you’re doing it just to postpone the inevitable existential crisis you’re bound to have any time soon. Also, you’re all a bunch of prats and unworthy of this town, or my sister’s, or my boyfriend’s uncle’s attention. And your ancestor was a stinky, disgusting and off-putting <em>prick</em>. Have a horrible day!” he added cheerfully, stepping aside to let the driver go. </p><p>“That was…”</p><p>Sherlock’s head whipped around to see John and Irene waiting for him on the curb. He wasn’t sorry for any of the things he’s just said, but he could play coy in front of them if they chastised him. “Not good?”</p><p>“Pretty amazing,” John grinned at him, and Irene jumped around his neck, suffocating him in a bear hug. He used the file to pat her on the back.</p><p>“This was the best thing you ever did for me right after buying me that Homestuck jumper for Christmas last year.”</p><p>“I always get you the best presents.”</p><p>“Modest twat. Where’s Greg?”</p><p>As if on cue, said grunkle tumbled out of the police station, rubbing his wrists. Once he saw the kids, namely John who watched him with a sardonic eyebrow arched high, he looked away. “Uh… Pizza from Angelo’s fine for dinner?”</p><p>Irene and Sherlock waited for John’s reply. None of them realised how hungry they were. John sighed, hugging Greg around the shoulder and steering him in the square’s direction. “We’ll order eight. What did you do this time?”</p><p>“It wasn’t my fault!”</p><p>“Sure, old man.”</p><p>Sherlock chuckled as Lestrade recalled the incident with vivid detail and even more explicit language. Irene listened, not holding back from snickering at the part where Lestrade slipped on the mud -- in fact, his trousers were still dirty, the dried mud peeling off in flakes. </p><p>“Seems like you had fun,” she poked Sherlock in the ribs. They located their car, currently moving towards it. He was hungry, tired, and in desperate need of John-cuddles. He thought back to Donovan and her rejection of his help. He <em>had</em> had fun, not counting that memory. </p><p>“I did. I solved cases for the local police.”</p><p>“Really? That’s great! On your way to becoming a proper Mr Detective, I see. Look at you, you’re doing great in both the supernatural and human departments.”</p><p>Seeing Irene’s soft tug of lips forming a smile, Sherlock believed it. As he recounted the cases in the car to her (while John and Lestrade bickered about what kind of pizza they were ordering) he forgot about the scolding, and about the resurfacing memories of his school bullies and name-callings. Donovan might not accept his help, but that has never stopped Sherlock from interfering in the name of a good cause, especially when he knew he could bring a new perspective into it. But he will leave the matter as it is for now. Because today, he got John, his step-sister, and himself to be happy as he was. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>so, the name of this episode is a slight nod at Cage's Disney movie - National Treasure. I guess we'll see more of him in the future, huh? oh well! will we ever find out who the original founder is??<br/>*chaos*<br/>there's a slight pattern as to when he might appear.... heh<br/>that said, dw about Sally and Sherlock. I want them to be buddies, but first some angst<br/>next up: episode 9, and more johnlock!!!!!!!!!!! *gae*<br/>Also, we're over 200k and not even in the half of s1 :DD fun!</p><p>updated: 14.3. 2021<br/>word count: 6426<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Look out for Cage and take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. Irene Had a Little Lamp I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a task and cuddles</p><p>episode 9 chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>whooo! new ep! soon we'll be halfway through s1!<br/>I can't wait to get to ep 10 and 11 :D omg and 13<br/>basically can' wait to show you the rest of it muehehehe<br/>thanks for reading &amp; enjoy &lt;3<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and my latte machiato </p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yellowed pages ruffled one by one, the long-dried ink faintly glimmering in the light of a small lamp that occupied Mary’s desk. A distinct smell of dust and mould rose in the air as she turned yet another page of the Mystery Journal number two. Lots of interesting information littered the papers, as well as detailed drawings and sketches, but nothing of satisfaction presented itself to Mary. </p><p>“Pirate zombies? No, those don’t take orders…. Curse that’ll make the victim’s eyeballs liquify? No, not painful enough…. Hamster polar bear?” She shut the journal with a loud clap, pushing it aside in disgust. “There <em>must </em>be a way to exact vengeance on that hateful woman Adler! I can’t harm her, that’s not nearly enough than what she deserves… No, I have to <em>take </em>something from her! Something to make her beg for <em>mercy</em>, something to grant me the power to decide her <em>fate</em>.” </p><p>Mary’s phone buzzed, rousing her from her brainstorming. She reached for it, its pink case hurting her eyes under the sharp beam of light coming from her lamp. She tilted the head of the source of light so that it aimed at the wall and unlocked the phone. Just an instagram notification about more people following her. Not of importance. </p><p>She scoffed, tying her loose hair in a ponytail. But having the phone in hand already, she searched for Adler’s instagram. There weren’t as many pictures as she’d imagined. She clicked through a few from the years 2021, a few months before she started university in Toronto. Most of them were panoramas of London or the British countryside, nothing spectacular. Even deeper into the timeline, there was a selfie of her and her brother. From 2017. The description read: <em>Convinced Sherlock to smile in this one!</em> Said brother seemed unenthusiastic to be photographed, his curls long and falling into his eyes, though a timid smile tilted the right corner of his mouth. Hm. She tried searching for Sherlock’s instagram, but no results showed. Either he didn’t have an account on the platform or used a different name. She’ll investigate that later. </p><p>A couple different pictures mentioned her brother as well. Given the facts, plus that they were both studying in Canada, must’ve meant they were close. She should pull a few strings to see what they are like as siblings. From her own experience, she knew too well that family is both one’s greatest strength and their weakest spot. A pressure point. That’s something she remembered from her boss on the night of her inauguration. Words of wisdom, though that man is the worst, most repelling human being that ever walked on Earth. Needs must, however, and he has a deal to fulfill. He has to help Mary get John to fall in love with her, so that she can never lose him. </p><p>And besides, who does Adler think she <em>is</em>? Seducing John just like that at a square during some derogatory town holiday, <em>hugging him</em> and <em>laughing with him</em> and, ugh! She won’t date John, never. She’ll die sooner than that, if Mary loses her nerves.</p><p>As if on cue, her phone rang again, an incoming call from an unknown number having her roll her eyes. The M Club could be extra at the best of times, especially when wanting to make a dramatic entrance. Which was always. </p><p>Mary picked up, letting the caller wait for a few seconds. “Hello?”</p><p>“Miss Morstan,” a smooth voice said into her ear. She craned her neck away from the speaker, disgusted by the purring, condescending tone of her boss. “I’ve heard you’ve been quite the naughty girl. Have you?”</p><p>“That depends what you’re asking about,” Mary replied levelly. Her fingers caressed her throat; a motion she got used to when she still had the pearl necklace. That is, until that fool Adler so idiotically crushed it, utterly ignorant to what she had caused. Mary did not report this incident, instead opting to find an exact replica, a fake to cover her misstep. Did the boss find out?</p><p>“I am referring to your spectacular headshots the two unfortunate ghouls were granted the other day,” her boss said, and Mary’s shoulder sagged in relief. He didn’t know. Good. He wasn’t as omniscient as he made himself to be. “Our personal coroner sent in the official reports, and I am delighted to see that you for once didn’t fail and did your job properly.”</p><p>“I always do my job properly,” Mary remarked, irritated by how he underestimated her. </p><p>“You didn’t do exactly well with seducing your Golden Boy using the necklace, did you?” he teased. Mary grit her teeth. “Speaking of which, any theory why that didn’t work out, Miss Morstan?”</p><p>“No, but do you? You were confident that it would work,” she said, only a hint of self-satisfaction of having her boss at the end of the line be wrong getting through her composition. “You promised me it’d make John fall head over heels, and yet he didn’t!”</p><p>“Don’t get pissy, Miss Morstan,” Boss scolded her, his words venomous at once. Mary shut up immediately. She was close to crossing the invisible line of his patience. “I arranged for everything to be ready for you prior to his arrival to Reichenbach Falls this summer. The rest is supposed to be up to you.”</p><p>“Well someone from your minions must’ve ruined the plan, because nothing worked.”</p><p>“Do not think for one second you’re valuable enough for me to keep doing you favours. <em>You </em>work for <em>me</em>. Not the other way around, missy. You’ve been working for the Club for half a year, I have more loyal and skilled agents and members than you could ever be. So do not think you’re in a position to complain or strike a deal, Miss Mortan. You have an original journal in your hands, which means I show you a great deal of trust for no reason, since you’re new. Are you of the opinion that I, as the leader of the M Club, am unworthy of my members’ trust?”</p><p>“No, but…”</p><p>Her boss interrupted her by raising his voice ever so slightly above hers. “If I hear you complain about something that is completely preventable, and therefore achievable, I’ll reconsider our deal, using whatever means I used for your Golden Boy on yourself, including the journal.” Mary’s heart pounded in her ribcage, a frantic rhythm of her cardiac muscle the only thing out of whack about her in the stiff pose she sat in. She swallowed the bile that rose up her throat. She didn’t know the details of what her Boss had made prior to John coming to town -- that was a part of her side of the deal, and she sure as hell didn’t want to find out for herself. “So please, Miss Morstan -- do <em>not </em>try my patience. You have so much potential, it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Am I making myself clear?”</p><p>“Yes,” she muttered, eyes downcast on her knees. She resented every interaction with this man. </p><p>“Good.” Boss sounded pleased, and she could clearly picture his shit-eating grin. So full of himself. “Now that you’re done being a naughty little girl, let’s move on to a brighter topic -- your next job.”</p><p>Mary sighed and rubbed her temple. Not that this came as a surprise. “I’m listening.”</p><p>“You’re to work in a group of four,” her boss said, his mood lightened. Lunatic.</p><p>“Will Moran supervise me?”</p><p>“Perhaps, but he has another dirty job to take care of for me. No, you’ll work with three other novices on your level. My people in the research department have recently accumulated data of increased paranormal activity around the infamous Mystery Shack’s property. It would be very convenient if you four managed to convince its owner, Gregory Lestrade, to sell it to the Club.”</p><p>“But… He won’t consent.”</p><p>“Is that so? Mr Lestrade is a professional conman, one that won’t resist scamming his own next of kin, surely. My people have tracked him for years now, and money is the way to speak to him. No doubt you know this or that about your Golden Boy’s uncle, but I’ll be sending a file to your group. I’d rather not play dirty here, though. Just a memo. Mr Lestrade could be valuable later on, who knows?”</p><p>Mary bit her tongue. She heard a rumour from Moran that the Club will focus on buying out more of the town’s land from locals, but she remembered what John said during that dinner at Speedy’s… Greg Lestrade may not be as easy to talk into selling the Shack as her boss seems to be hoping for. She hasn’t seen him in a few years. In fact, they may have seen each other face-to-face on about two or three occasions. This is a dangerous territory. She can’t jeopardise whatever chance she has left with John, but she has no other choice than to follow commands. </p><p>“I can hear the cogs turning in your head,” he chuckled, making Mary scowl at the dark screen of her phone. It momentarily lightened up, showing two words: Unknown Caller. Semi-omniscient prick. “Let me remind you that you do what I tell you to. You cannot back out. You agreed to this and signed the contract. So don’t even think about leaving, Miss Morstan. I won’t let you. If you’re worried about your little role in the Club and how it influences your reputation, don’t. It’s pointless. No one outside knows, and Mr Lestrade, if he recognises you after years of no contact, is smart enough not to flail it around.”</p><p>“Understood,” said Mary, albeit reluctantly. She’ll have to be smart about this. Better get her hands on the files first, the rest of her group can shove it. “When do you need a report on the task, Mr Magnussen?”</p><p>“Let’s say…. Hm. It’s not a pressing manner. We don’t need to buy out the lot this instant, but let’s see who we’re dealing with. The rest is up for deciding yet. Oh, but if one of you four manages to solve this tiny obstacle now, ranking up is immediate. Moran will redirect you from here. Good night, Miss Morstan.”</p><p>The line went dead, leaving Mary to wonder what morons she was going to be paired up with. <em>Novices</em>. She no longer belonged to that category! She moved up in the chain, slowly, but steadily. Soon, she’ll catch up with Moran, the prick. Then he’ll see how she can kick his ass. </p><p>Sighing, Mary pushed her wheely chair from the table, taking the journal to hide it under the pillows on her spacious bed. Eleven striked the clock, the sky outside dark like her thoughts. She’ll decide what to do about Irene Adler later. First, she’ll push through this task and gain some respect.</p><p>~</p><p>Greg and Irene sat on the living room sofa, feet up on the coffee table. <em>Dog-tective Doug</em> played on the TV, the dialogues interrupted by their crunching on chips. </p><p>“You’ve pawed your way too far this time ‘round, Dog-tective!” a criminal on the show said to the canine hero.</p><p>“He should just bite him in the ass,” Greg commented, taking a sip from his soda can. Irene grunted an agreement, too busy stuffing her face with the greasy, fried potato bits. Then the ads cut in. They both groaned, but neither bothered to get up, grab the remote, and change the channel. They blankly stared at the brand new HD TV that Greg had bought, an advertisement about horse hooves’ polisher killing the last of their active brain cells. The bell rang.</p><p>“Fucking hell,” Greg cursed, wiping his greasy fingers on the nearest pillow he got a hold of. He stood up with a grunt; his bones and back aching. He’s spent the last few days barely sleeping, slaving away downstairs in the basement labs. He had to weld an outer ring of the portal, and that took <em>ages</em> to finish. Now he’ll have to install it on the frame, but that can wait a day or two. “Who can it be? We have no traffic today. The tours are done as well.”</p><p>“Maybe it’s Santa,” Irene suggested, making Greg stop dead in his tracks and think about what he’s heard. </p><p>“It’s not even the season?” he said, casting her a quick glance before limping his way to the front door. Kids these days. Mixing up events of the year, though he can’t blame Irene. Opening the door, Greg welcomed the local postman, Elwood Rogers. “Hi, El. What’s up?”</p><p>“Hello, Gregory,” Rogers said. He was an old man of short height, wobbly walk, and full of grey hair sticking out at all angles. His postman’s uniform was a bit oversized, but he lived for comfort, and they’d have to pry that from his cold, dead hands. This man rivaled Greg’s wit and sense of dry humour, and they got along well. “I believe I’ve got mail for you.”</p><p>“Again?” Greg frowned, leaning closer to see what Rogers took out from his carrier bag. “Shit, did the tax collector find me? God dammit --”</p><p>“No, I don’t think so,” Rogers drew out the last word, squinting at a letter he had for Greg. He lifted his round glasses, not aiding his vision one bit. “Seems like some official letter, but not from the tax collector.”</p><p>“You keep an eye out for him?”</p><p>“Why not? I also don’t pay. Comes in handy, at least I’ll know when to withdraw my savings and flee to Chile to tend to Alpacas and breed cats,” the postman said mildly, shrugging. </p><p>“That’s a solid plan. I hope you’ll send me postcards.”</p><p>Rogers winked at him, leaning conspiratorially closer. “Don’t worry, I’ll send my best cat spies in a trenchcoat to deliver it directly to you. VIP privilege.”</p><p>Greg put a hand over his heart, face serious as he took the mysterious letter. “Thank you, El. That’s an honour.”</p><p>Rogers saluted, walking backwards to the road where his delivery horse stood. Yep, this postman delivered bills on a horse. A purebred, too. Quazar, such was the horse’s name, sniffed the moistened air after two days of near-constant raining, waiting for his rider to come back. </p><p>“It’s been an honour right now, too!” Rogers said, hopping onto Quazar with practised ease. He waved Greg a goodbye and then off they went. </p><p>Greg smirked to himself, turning around only to jump back, gasping for breath. Irene stood right behind him, face twisted into a confused frown. “What did I just see? This was like watching a Simpsons episode.”</p><p>“Just a friend of mine,” Greg said, not feeling like elaborating. Elwood was a cool dude, a local cryptid, if you will. Or at least that was Greg’s theory. </p><p>Irene followed him to the kitchen, the ads endlessly plundering on the TV. He opened the window there, using his forefinger to tear the letter open. Nothing but his name was written on the front, no address of the sender put on it either. This smelled fishy. But one peek at the paper inside, once unfolded, told him enough. He recognised the handwriting immediately. With a rueful chuckle, he looked out of the window, tearing the personal letter from the M Club into the tiniest of pieces. </p><p>“Did someone send you a complaint about being cursed?” Irene asked, raising an eyebrow at how thorough he was being with eliminating any possibility to ever read the letter. He shuddered at the memory of the dolls. </p><p>“No, just some spam.”</p><p>“You get spam in real life?”</p><p>“Yes?” Greg looked at her, his brows furrowing at today’s generation. “I mean, this is obviously trash. So I’m getting rid of it.”</p><p>“But you haven’t even read it properly,” Irene pointed out, nodding at the shreds of useless paper in his palms. He scattered them outside the window. The pieces flew into a bin strategically placed right under it. Greg usually threw his finished cigarettes in there. Irene was being a smartass, but that was an Adler-Holmes family characteristic he knew very well. </p><p>“I recognise trash when I see it, just like now,” Greg said, patting her on the back as he passed her to return to the living room. He’s not going to be bothered by the Club today. He needs to chill and relax. Irene didn’t push for answers, thankfully. He looked over his aching shoulder. “Wanna see what else is on TV?”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s not like I want to be in the attic right now.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“The guys are surely snogging each other to death.”</p><p>Greg plopped down on the soft cushions, groaning from the relief of his back having a support in the softness. Irene occupied his armchair, so he could lay down and slouch like the lazy sloth he was. He laughed at how Irene commented on the boys. “Ah, that’s young love. At least they’re happy and are finally together.”</p><p>“Aw. Wouldn’t have guessed you to be such a shipper,” Irene said, and <em>Dog-tective Doug</em> resumed. Yeah, it totally was due to him being a shipper… </p><p>~</p><p>Sherlock pouted his lips, green-blue stare focused on a thin red string that hung undisturbed from the attic ceiling lamp. At the bottom of the string tied in a knot was a tennis ball. Green, fuzzy, the regular equipment that came with the sport. Or so it looked like it. The inside of the ball, unsurprisingly, Sherlock filled with red paint. A tiny strip of duct tape prevented the paint from spilling outside prematurely before he and John could conduct their experiment. </p><p>Carefully so as to not bump into the tennis ball, Sherlock circled around it. Papers upon papers from the newspapers that lied around the Shack idly in stacks now covered the attic’s floor, the beds, the nightstands… everything in sight had stale newspapers stuck on top of it. Not that Sherlock would mind a stain here and there, but John insisted they save themselves the pain of cleaning up later and brought up a large pile of the useless print. </p><p>“Is the phone set up?” Sherlock asked, feet shuffling on the smooth, crunched up papers. </p><p>“Just a sec… there. Yep, ready!” John said, showing him a thumbs up. He jumped on Sherlock’s bed, a notepad and pen in hand. He offered to take notes along his phone taking video evidence of their experiment. </p><p>Sherlock grabbed the tennis ball and walked to the windowsill, standing up on the narrow piece of wood. He maneuvered himself so that his back was turned on the red and purple glass stained triangular window, the rest of him facing the room. He was directly in front of the closed door, John on his right sitting cross-legged on his thin duvet. They looked at each other, smiled, and John nodded. </p><p>“This is experiment number one, conducted by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” Sherlock said in all seriousness, eliciting a giggle from John. He loved that giggle. He shot John a half-hearted glare -- he had to keep up the professionality! What if aliens arrive tomorrow and they’d find a video about an amazing (debatable) experiment with no commentary whatsoever? Science would weep. “We have acquired a tennis ball, a courtesy of Lestrade’s nonexistent active sportlife.” John snorted. “I have filled the hollow space inside of the ball with red paint obtained from Mrs Hudson’s shed. The incision has been covered with duct tape to avoid leakage. Now I’ll remove the duct tape and let go of the tennis ball to observe its movement as it swings and John will take notes. Then as a second step, I’ll whack it with a shoe to see how the trajectory would change from a different angle.”</p><p>He tore off the tape and let the ball swing forth, making it cut through the air in a neat rounded curve towards the door, when suddenly the thin red string snapped, the door opened, and the ball flew aside on impact, bouncing on numerous surfaces: the walls, the floor, the ceiling, until it finally landed and got lost on the uppermost shelf of a wall built-in wardrobe. </p><p>Sherlock froze, John clasping a hand over his mouth and head ducking as his eyes widened when Lestrade’s appeared in the doorway. Thankfully, he didn’t come in and stayed leaning against the doorframe. His right eyebrow rose above the left as he took in the literal newspaper coverage and Sherlock awkwardly standing on the windowsill. He looked to his nephew for an answer, who pretended to be busy by scribbling something into the notepad. </p><p>“Interrupting?” </p><p>“An experiment, actually,” Sherlock supplied, feigning indifference as he tried to ignore the red splotches totally out of bounds of the newspaper. He hopped off the sill, almost slipping on the papers. </p><p>“Do I even want to know?” Lestrade asked, yawning into his fist. He didn’t get much sleep, probably going out to poker nights or staying up late watching telly. Or maybe devising a devilish plan to overtake the world or scam more tourists, who knew?</p><p>“It’s a crime scene,” John explained bluntly, eyes still downcast on his pen that kept writing something unreadable on the blank page. “We want to know how blood would splatter if a bleeding body hung upside down by the ankles while it kept swinging.”</p><p>Sherlock hummed, sitting down next to John, the mattress springing up and down under his weight, dipping him closer to his boyfriend. “As you can see, we took the precaution to cover everything in the room so that nothing gets red paint on it,” he said, graciously omitting the mention of the red stripes and splotches out of Lestrade’s line of sight.</p><p>Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose as their explanation progressed. “Right… I guess I should thank you for not using real blood -- so, thanks.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” they both said in unison, making Lestrade smile at them. Sherlock tipped his head to the side a little, near John’s shoulder. </p><p>“Anyway, I’d also welcome if you could clean up all this right after you’re done, alright? Thanks. Great to see you having fun, just don’t make a mess. Also, I’m heading out to town, want anything?”</p><p>“Blueberry jam!” John said enthusiastically, his eyes brightening up. “We forgot that the last time, so that. Please. Also cookies-flavoured ice-cream. And pistachio. And Angelo’s lasagna. And also toast and milk, we’re out of those, but I put it on your shopping list. Oooh! And don’t forget cini-minis or some other cereals, but not cornflakes. And --”</p><p>“I’m not buying the whole shop,” Lestrade put up a hand to stop his nephew from naming the whole index of the nearest mall. John’s lips quirked up shyly at his grunkle, scratching the side of his neck. </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“Nah. You just don’t need to name it all, I know what to buy. So, junk food, comfort food, and normal food. Anything you like, Sherlock?”</p><p>Sherlock, not expecting to be asked at this point, shrugged. “Uhm… Oh! Maybe tomatoes?”</p><p>“Tomatoes? What on Earth for?”</p><p>“Uhm… You see, there was this eyeball experiment I theoreticized back in Toronto…”</p><p>“Right, okay,” Lestrade grimaced, shifting on his feet. “I thought you’d like a sweet treat, but I’ll get that too. I’ll let you stab and mutilate tomatoes over real eyes any day.”</p><p>“Greg hates tomatoes,” John told him, bumping his shoulder. Sherlock wanted to kiss that smirk off his face, taste it on his lips, but he couldn’t in front of Lestrade. Ew. Can he get out already?</p><p>Lestrade rolled his eyes, sighing. “I hate the giant red mutant tomatoes. I’m fine with the cherry ones. So that’s all, Sherlock?”</p><p>He thought about what he could possibly want. He already had John, the tomatoes would suffice, hm… “British tea, if you find any? Haven’t had a cuppa since… New Year’s, possibly. I miss the taste.”</p><p>Lestrade nodded, bidding them both a farewell. “You got it. I’ll be back in… eh, whenever I’m done.” They heard his footsteps trumple down the stairs until he left the house. Irene was nowhere to be found either. </p><p>Sherlock exhaled through his mouth, slumping to the right so that he could lean into John, but instead of colliding with a squishy, yet muscular bicep, Sherlock fell sideways onto the mattress. He squinted where John’s gone off to, which was to close the attic door and then investigate the accidental mess the tennis ball had caused. Sherlock rolled onto his back, pushing himself forward on the bed, arching his neck so that he could watch John upside-down. Said Canadian inspected the red stains on the wall, then went to see where the ball skedaddled off to. </p><p>“I can’t believe Greg didn’t hear it bounce around like a loose firework,” he said, peering into the highest shelves by standing on the tips of his toes. The ball perched itself into the uppermost shelf, but as John reached to grab it, the tips of his fingers pushed it rolling further away from him. He stepped back, up on his toes to see where it went. A frown furrowed his brows, lips pouting adorably in concentration. Then he stumbled forward, jumping to reach further, but to no avail. </p><p>Sherlock rolled onto his side, propping his chin on pale knuckles. “Need a hand?” he smirked, loving the death glare he got in return. </p><p>“Whatever joke you’re going for, shush,” John put up a finger, glancing at the wardrobe. “It’s not my fault the wardrobe is so tall.”</p><p>“Blaming inanimate objects, John?”</p><p>“Stop questioning me and retrieve the ball, will you? Can’t leave evidence lying around.”</p><p>Sherlock got up, the smirk not yet leaving his face as he stood next to the wardrobe, his eyes connecting to John’s reprimanding, half-hearted stare as he stood next to him with his arms crossed. Sherlock needed to merely stretch his arm out and stand up on his toes for balance to grab the ball. “Ew, I got some of it on my hand.”</p><p>“Serves you right, pinetree.”</p><p>“Why pinetree?” </p><p>“Because you’re tall like one?”</p><p>“We should stop the endless cycle of questions now,” Sherlock decided, walking to his bed to sit down and examine the tennis ball. The red paint started drying already, most of its surface sticky and wet. Sherlock put it on the newspaper, wiping his fingers on it too. He went to stop the phone recording and set John’s phone flat on the nightstand. “Should we clean the wall?”</p><p>“I suppose we should, but I’m lazy,” John said, throwing himself down on his belly next to Sherlock. “And it’s not like Greg will notice. The earliest he could find out would be when we go to uni in September. God, I’m so tired.”</p><p>“You slept for seven hours,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but likewise settled himself next to John on his back. He cuddled closer, throwing his right leg oever John’s, whose arm wound around his torso and dragged him closer. Ah, that was better. Curious how fast he got used to this… domesticity, of sorts. It felt natural, safe. As if the last puzzle piece fell into place. </p><p>“Doesn’t mean it was good sleep,” John murmured next to his ear, and Sherlock wiggled in his embrace onto his side to comb his fingers through John’s hair. “Ooh, that feels nice.”</p><p>Sherlock hummed, happy to make John comfortable. “What made your sleep bad?”</p><p>“Dunno. Overthinking the Cage reappearance, though I think I hallucinated half of what happened yesterday.”</p><p>“I doubt you or Irene accidentally consumed hallucinogenic substances on your way to the cemetery.”</p><p>“Irene ate a whole bag of gummy bears.”</p><p>“Okay, I take her back. <em>You</em> didn’t consume anything hallucinogenic. Irene played with fire again, I see.”</p><p>A muffled laugh shook John’s shoulders. He cracked one eye open, resting his cheek on the flat of his left wrist. His thumb slowly circled over Sherlock’s ribs. “At least it wasn’t a slurpee. And I bought the gummy bears for you too, but she was in dire need of cheering up. You both have a sweet tooth.”</p><p>“Says you who told Lestrade to get two kinds of ice-cream,” Sherlock reminded him, moving his hand to John’s back, using the tips of his fingers to leisurely trace his vertebrae. He realised he didn’t know nearly as much about John as he should. Unacceptable.“What other flavours do you like? I have to know everything about you.”</p><p>John smiled, pulling Sherlock closer in for a kiss. It was a slow, tender brush of lips that deepened, John’s warm hand moving up his chest and neck until it cupped his jaw. Sherlock rolled onto his back, reversing their positions, his own arm sneaking around John’s neck and drawing him even closer. So far on a scale of one to ten, Sherlock rated the kisses as nine-and-a-half, the downside being that they had to stop eventually. Well, they wouldn’t <em>have</em> to, but John insisted on eating food every once in a while. Or snacking. Or doing some mundane activities, or experiments…. Alright, fine, experiments had a pass. At least he didn’t have to refrain from kissing John now. Maybe except when other people were around, that was plain intrusive. </p><p>“Well,” John said after they broke apart, planting a soft kiss on Sherlock’s nose, “I thought you deduced like half of it already. Do you want me to make it easy for you?”</p><p>Teasing. He was <em>teasing </em>him. Sherlock put his hands under his pillow, looking up into John’s honey-like irises. He pouted, turning his face aside. “You’re making me smarter than I am. I can’t deduce <em>everything</em>. Not yet, anyway.”</p><p>“Oh, you <em>are</em> smart. Intelligent. Witty,” John started naming, eyes looking to the left and twinkling as he came up with more. “Cutting and sharp. Handsome.”</p><p>“Stop the attributes.” He didn’t want John to stop. And John, thankfully, didn’t listen.</p><p>“And pretty and cute. Fashionable. Funny. Also, don’t forget adorable.”</p><p>Sherlock scoffed and nudged John’s hip with his leg. “You forgot brilliant.”</p><p>“And humble,” John chuckled, his knuckles caressing Sherlock’s cheek bone. A dreamy gaze clouded his eyes as he looked down at him. “<em>And</em> amazing. So what, my dear detective, haven’t you figured what other ice-cream flavour I like?”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes for good measure. “You’re blowing things out of proportion. I wouldn’t know because I never saw you at an ice-cream stand. I could hypothetically deduce that from the way you look at the flavours, who knows? Actually, that’s a good experiment to do, we have to remember that.”</p><p>“Okay. I’m fine with experiments on my person as long as I’m notified beforehand.”</p><p>“Duly noted. So, what flavour? I meant what I said, I need to know everything there is about you. And where else should I get the information than from you?”</p><p>“I could lie,” John suggested, shrugging. He dug his arm under Sherlock’s pillow, resting his head down next to his. </p><p>“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock argued. He bent a leg, scratching his knee before letting it fall down on the duvet. “You don’t lie. You’re honest about all you do. You voice your thoughts if you think someone is wrong. Or if they act like arses, you can’t stand injustice. That probably stems from your upbringing, but… I don’t want to assume anything about that should I offend you. I don’t want to hurt you. So, no. You wouldn’t lie, because you dislike being lied to; a simple equation. You’d rather be honest and face the consequences immediately than lie only to let the problems brew over time and then burst like a balloon.”</p><p>“People have grey areas,” John said, throwing his leg over Sherlock’s stomach lightly. “You’re right, I appreciate honesty. And I do try to be honest as much as I can. But there are times when I have or had to lie.”</p><p>“Such as?” Sherlock couldn’t resist asking. John bit on the inside of his cheek, lost in thought. Has he struck a nerve? Will John get mad at him now and leave? </p><p>“Well, it’s a bit of a long story,” John said, staying where he was. The knot of anxiety tying itself in Sherlock’s stomach loosened, dissipating second by second. Oof. He didn’t screw up. “But in general, I wouldn’t mind lying to my immediate family, I guess. They’ve been a pain in the ass to be around, these past few years. And… it’s not the best, you know? It’s something I did as a kid, I think as a form of self-defense. My parents are… ‘strict’ and you get tired of them constantly taking away your things. So I started lying occasionally. Nothing major, just small white lies so I could get some peace before I left for uni.”</p><p>“I see,” Sherlock said eventually. This was new information. John said this with almost no emotional attachment, merely stating the facts as they were. Now Sherlock wanted -- needed -- to know more. But he shouldn’t demand this, though, should he? No, that probably wasn’t the socially acceptable thing to do. Soft approach, then? “And… how are they? Your parents?” He hoped it didn’t sound too interrogatory or pathetic. </p><p>“I don’t know. Haven’t talked to them in a while. It’s not like they care much, even though it’s paradoxical given that they’re controlling, too. I went here straight from Toronto. Fortunately, they divorced, but it didn’t help at all,” John huffed, smiling ruefully to himself. Sherlock’s brows knitted together. He needed to understand, but he cannot force it out of John. </p><p>“Why fortunately?” he prodded gently, but in reality he wanted to have a clear view of John’s mind and see it for himself, firsthand. This is not what children of any age wished for, so why did John say the exact opposite of the expected?</p><p>John deposited himself flat on his back, also putting his hands under his head on top of Sherlock’s pillow, eyes transfixed to the ceiling. Cobwebs hung from it, imperceptibly floating in the air like some sort of terrestrial seaweed. Earthweed? Spiderweed? He blinked the ridiculous train of thoughts away. He ought to focus on what John will tell him. </p><p>“Well, for one: they’re absolutely incompatible,” John said, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth before continuing. “I didn’t notice it as a kid, but as I grew older I saw how they behave toward each other. They’re divorced, but they live in the same house, for reasons that elude me. No, in fact, it’s the finances. They wouldn’t be able to afford housing without a second income, so they stick together like expired glue. They trash-talk the other one, no matter if we hear them or not. There’s usually lots of yelling every time I’m home. There are good periods where it seems fine, but that doesn’t stay. It’s chaotic. I try to not let it get to me. But yeah, in general, it’s kinda shitty.”</p><p>They fell silent. Sherlock processed what John told him. He sensed that, obviously, there was more to say, but for some reason John didn’t continue. Why not? It’s not like Sherlock would mind. He truly wants to get to know John the inside out, whether it’s good or bad. It doesn’t matter. </p><p>John cleared his throat. “Sorry -- I don’t want to bother you with this.” </p><p>“You’re not,” Sherlock hurried to say, propping himself on his elbow to look at John. He gently turned John’s chin so that he faced him, brushing his thumb over the cheekbone. Shy eyes met determined, and Sherlock scolded himself for not foreseeing where this may lead to. He should’ve picked up on the clues sooner! John seemed unconvinced. “I mean it, John. I asked. How can it bother me? I said I --”</p><p>“That you want to know everything, I know,” John finished, giving him a lopsided smile. “I’m fine with that. I’m just not used to talking about ‘everything’. And I don’t probably know what is relevant and what isn’t. So I’m going to give you a pass and say that you can go ask Greg about anything that concerns me.”</p><p>“Lestrade is not you.”</p><p>“No, but sometimes I may not be able to give the full story,” John said, fingers sneaking into Sherlock’s curls, making him purr at the contact. “It’s… difficult to put it into words. So don’t worry and go ask Greg.”</p><p>“I may consider it should the situation require it.”</p><p>“Ha, you’re missing the best part about it.”</p><p>“Which is?”</p><p>“I’ll get right to it,” John said, nuzzling Sherlock and stealing another kiss. Sherlock, being clingy as he reluctantly realised he was, followed John down, giving him a second kiss. Only then did he cuddle his form, limbs encircling his boyfriend as though he were an octopus. “But I have a proposal. How about we trade fun facts about ourselves? I’m no detective, but I also want to know the whole of you. So if one of us asks a question, they have to contribute to it as well.”</p><p>Sherlock, lulled by the vibrations under John’s ribcage as he spoke, hummed happily. John’s arms wound around him, holding him firmly in place. “I suppose that’s reasonable. It allows us to share an equal amount of information, so we’ll easily keep track.”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>“So what ‘best part’ am I missing?”</p><p>“That you could ask Greg anything ranging from the topic of my family to when my birthday is, or embarrassing childhood stories.”</p><p>Sherlock froze, eyes snapping wide open. <em>I DON’T KNOW WHEN JOHN’S BIRTHDAY IS?!</em> he thought, horrified by his negligence. <em>OH MY GOD! I’M A TERRIBLE BOYFRIEND!</em> John, sensing his distress, laughed for the first time since talking about his family. Sherlock hugged him tighter. “When’s your birthday?”</p><p>“August twenty-first,” John said, sighing dreamily. “It’s what, 2022? I’ll turn twenty-two as well. Jeez, I’m getting old. When’s yours?”</p><p>“Sixth of January. I’ll be twenty.”</p><p>“Mhm. Yay to young adulthood.” The sentence, ironically, lacked the enthusiasm that’d be otherwise expected, but it was completely understandable since adulthood is overrated. Sherlock’s been one such ‘official’ adult for a few months and it constantly felt as if life was a carousel on fire, spinning in the eternal void of the universe, aimless in its direction. Scary. And absolutely unrelated to this. </p><p>Comfortable silence fell over them once more and the time slowed down, leaving them to enjoy each other’s company in peace. That is, until said peace was disturbed by a stampede of footsteps on the stairs leading to the upper house storeys. Sherlock groaned, burrowing himself further into the inviting softness that John’s body offered. </p><p>“Guys!” Irene’s angelic-cum-demonic voice carried through the corridors and rooms. “I’m coming up and I better not see any dicks! Or suspicious stains anywhere in the room!”</p><p>“Oh my God, she’s awful,” Sherlock complained, muttering into John’s beige t-shirt. </p><p>“Yeah, for a lesbian, she’s a bit too keen on mentioning dicks often,” John said, his chest shaking as he chuckled. He kissed Sherlock’s curls, relaxing further into the mattress. </p><p>The footsteps came to a halt in front of the attic room door. “Is it safe to come in? No pun intended.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Irene!” Sherlock called out, scandalized. He extracted himself from his octopus-hug, stomping to the door to tear them open and glare at his step-sister in his full height. “Can you stop with the innuendos for five minutes?”</p><p>“I’ve been gone for two hours,” she told him, humoured by his rage. She slipped in, only to halt anew. “The fuck? What were you doing? Is this some new kink Ao3’s tag wranglers haven’t generalised yet? Oh hi, John.”</p><p>“Hi, Irene!” John greeted her, sitting up on the bed. “And no, no kinks. A crime scene.”</p><p>“Huh? You’re planning to kill someone? I think you’re doing it from the end to the beginning. You need to kill someone first, then it becomes a crime scene.”</p><p>“May as well start with you,” Sherlock grunted, barely resisting the urge to wrap his fingers around Irene’s petite neck. She paid him zero attention, instead opting to dramatically throw herself on her own bed. “What do you want?”</p><p>“Aren’t you lovely today?” she purred, sticking out her tongue at him. “I’m bored. And -- wait, what is that? Is that red paint?” She sat up and hurried to see the weird stains the tennis ball imprinted on the wall. “Are you kidding me? How did this happen? Why wasn’t I here?”</p><p>“You decided your gracious presence was needed elsewhere,” Sherlock said, kicking into the newspaper. </p><p>“Sherlock, be nice,” John told him, raising an eyebrow. He pouted, crossing his arms in protest. “Don’t give me that, she’s your sister -- you be nice.”</p><p>“Step-sister.”</p><p>“Why does it matter?”</p><p>“Guys, does Greg know about this?” Irene interrupted, unperturbed by anything happening behind her back. “Meh, as if he cared. A bit of colour won’t hurt him. Anyway, wanna go watch <em>Dog-tective Doug</em>? A new episode is airing in fifteen minutes!”</p><p>“Sure!” John said, rising to his feet. Irene cheered, dancing her way out of the room, carefree. “C’mon, Sherlock. Let’s kill our brain cells watching TV.”</p><p>“Jooohn, I don’t want to,” he frowned, trying to make a puppy-eye stare. John saw right through him. He came up to him, stood on his toes and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, taking him by the elbow. </p><p>“Nope, you’re socialising with the rest of the household today,” John said, tugging him along. And he had the audacity to <em>wink</em> at him! “But hey, you’re free to share your observations and spoilers with me. <em>And </em>I’ll play with your hair.”</p><p>Begrudgingly, Sherlock agreed. But only because of John.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Magnussen, Moran, Morstan.... the M Club. who was the first M?<br/>also, yes, johnlock is hitting it off, because FINALLY<br/>~can you feel the gayyyy tonight?~ jk it's 11am here<br/>we'll know more of John's family later, I've got a whole arc around it, but I wonder when I should add the tag<br/>how are you peeps doing? I hope life's treatin' y'all good<br/>see you in 5!</p><p>updated: 20.3. 2021<br/>word count: 6942<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. Irene Had a Little Lamp II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are shortcomings</p>
<p>episode 9, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey peeps! :D<br/>enjoy the chapter~<br/>thanks for reading &amp; special thanks to bee and dee, and my shirts that make me stylish</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One paper, two pens, four pairs of eyes, and eight feet altogether occupied the space of the Mystery Shack gift shop. Kate and Irene stood on the opposite sides of the cashier’s desk, a slip of paper showing a grid of three-by-three between them. Irene drew circles, Kate crosses. So far, Irene’s score in the game of tic-tac-toe beat Kate’s: 22 to 10. </p>
<p>“Ha! I won another round!” Irene proclaimed victoriously, circling the whole grid a couple times for emphasis. </p>
<p>“How do you do this? This is witchcraft,” Kate squinted at her. Her pen tapped angrily against the cashier’s desk. The magic trick was to always start in the middle. Apparently Kate had never ever played tic-tac-toe, so Irene decided to teach her. She specifically asked not to be coddled, so Irene delivered, though she was sneaky with her tactic, curious when Kate will catch onto her. </p>
<p>“You see but you don’t observe,” Sherlock said, switching an outdated magazine about gardening from March 2021 for a medical journal. Kate parroted what he said in a mockery sort of voice, a flash of wrath flicking in her eyes as she evidently contemplated throwing the pen at him. </p>
<p>Irene allowed Kate to start the next round. The four of them were alone in the gift shop and the Shack today. Greg was dozing off in the living room and Mrs Hudson tended to her flower beds. Plus, not many tourists showed up, an unusual period of stillness and concord granting them the option to do whatever they pleased. In theory, this sounded amazing. In practise, this meant that Sherlock rearranged the shop’s merchandise into indexes he devised purely for the sole purpose of not succumbing to death by boredom, Irene and Kate played games or gossiped, and John tidied up, acting as the voice of reason if the three of them got petty. Currently, John turned his attention to dusting shelves above the cash register. There were two: one displaying figurines of Sascrotches, the other showing two aquarium bowls that housed drowned (or pickled), shriveled heads of unknown origin. The eyes were scratched out at least, diminishing their scary vibe by one unnerving quota. </p>
<p>“I’m getting myself lemonade,” Sherlock announced, sending the magazine stand spinning. “John, do you want anything from the kitchen?”</p>
<p>“See if there’s any sandwiches left from Mrs Hudson,” John said, looking delighted at the prospect of food. He gave Sherlock a besotted look from where he stood on a stool. “And the lemonade too, please.”</p>
<p>Sherlock winked at him and turned to leave. Without asking Kate or Irene! “Hey!” they shouted in unison, equally offended by the <em>audacity</em>. Kate beat Irene to it. “What about us?”</p>
<p>“What about you?” Sherlock feigned clueless, and Irene felt the urge to smack him. Preferably using a skillet. </p>
<p>“Won’t you ask us if we want lemonade too?” Irene said, hands on her hips. “Jeez, I always ask if you want stuff! Where’s my repay? Where are your manners?” Sherlock’s face was blank, save for the twinkly spark in his eyes. Irene’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, you bastard. You’d bring it anyway.”</p>
<p>“I’m not an ungrateful savage, you know,” he smirked, curls bouncing as he turned on the balls of his feet. Priggish brat. He knew how to aggravate them. “You’re both on your period, it’s better to keep you fed.”</p>
<p>“Wait, bring me a metal straw too, please!” Kate yelled at the top of her lungs, startling John who stood behind her. Sherlock made an affirmative noise and disappeared in the house beyond. “Aw, I like how he’s basically like our posh British butler.”</p>
<p>“Careful or he’ll hear you,” Irene whispered conspiratorially. John shook his head, but she saw the amusement, ha! Busted. </p>
<p>John hopped off the stool, tossing the duster atop the counter. He rolled up his yellow shirt sleeves, the white tank top underneath clinging to his chest and ribs and flat stomach. No wonder Sherlock was thirsty. Jesus. Good thing she was a matchmaker lesbian to line them up this good. </p>
<p>“I’m gonna get a spray polisher,” he said, walking to the back room where all detergents and cleaning supplies were kept. “Kate, can you get the aquariums down? They need a fresh look.”</p>
<p>“I’ll do it!” Irene said, hurrying to the shelves. But even using the stool as leverage didn’t help her reach it. She stood on her tiptoes, balancing her body as best she could to prevent a fall, but without result. Frustrated, she hopped up, only to feel the wooden stool buckle under her feet. “Shit!”</p>
<p>Irene squeezed her eyes shut, her body going rigid to minimise the chance of a serious injury. A flurry of movement later, ignoring the shouts of John and Kate, she found herself colliding with not one, but two pairs of hands. Kate held her under her armpits, John her legs. </p>
<p>“Jesus, Irene,” John huffed, lowering her feet to the floor. “Can you try not to get yourself killed?”</p>
<p>“Sorry, I wanted to get the aquariums down myself. The shelves are higher than I expected.”</p>
<p>“That’s why I asked Kate to get them.”</p>
<p>“What? We’re the same height!”</p>
<p>“No… not really,” John said, eyes darting to an unspecified place to his left. “Kate’s a teeny-weeny bit taller than you.”</p>
<p>“What? I don’t believe that! Get us a meter!” Irene commanded, outraged by the accusation of being shorter than her friend. Kate seemed nonplussed, up for the measuring no matter what. </p>
<p>“Maybe it’s a sign,” Kate said in a hushed voice. She inspected her hands as though they’d turn blue. “Maybe this is just the beginning. I’m evolving into the superior Woman of all women! THE WOMAN!”</p>
<p>“Right, well,” John interrupted Kate’s evil revelation, “We don’t have a meter, but…. Okay, stand here up against the wall.” He gestured to a secluded spot by the entrance of the gift shop. Both girls mutely followed. John grabbed a pencil and told Irene to get out of her shoes and press her back to the wall. He marked her height, then repeated the process with Kate. After all was done, he stood back, the pencil poking his cheek. “Yep. Kate’s got like two centimeters on you.”</p>
<p>“This is unbelievable!” Irene gasped, pushing John aside so suddenly he banged up against the cash register. </p>
<p>“Ouch!”</p>
<p>“Shush! I’m having a midlife crisis!” </p>
<p>She glared holes into the marks John put on the wood there. He wrote her name next to it, and Kate’s was written slightly above hers. It wasn’t that big of a difference, but it offended her nonetheless. </p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice sounded unbothered, if wary of the three staring at a wall in a faraway corner. He deposited a jug of purple lemonade and a tray full of mouth-watering sandwiches on the cashier’s desk, taking one and biting into it. </p>
<p>“Irene is having a crisis because I’m taller than her,” Kate said smugly, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. She thanked Sherlock and sipped on the straw he put in her glass. </p>
<p>“Yes, because it’s just two centimeters! It’s ridiculous, that’s not <em>taller</em>, that’s nitpicking. It makes me feel short.”</p>
<p>“Why does it matter?” Sherlock said with a mouthful of sandwich. John circled around the desk and grabbed a glass of lemonade for himself, hugging Sherlock with one arm wound around his waist. “I’m taller than all of you combined. You’re definitely shorter when it comes to me.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but you’re a bloody pinetree,” Irene snapped. Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but refrained from retorting a venomous remark. “This is unfair!”</p>
<p>“Oh come on,” John said, “it doesn’t matter. It’s genetics, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”</p>
<p>“You’re the one to speak, John. You’re also below average, how do you deal with that?”</p>
<p>“Simple -- I don’t think about it,” John replied, downing his glass and setting it on the tray. He patted Sherlock’s shoulder blades, nodding at the shelves. “Speaking of which, Mr Tall Guy, get these on the counter, please.”</p>
<p>“Alright, Shorty,” Sherlock smirked, ducking away from John who prepared to whack him with an old dirty cloth. </p>
<p>While Sherlock did as asked, Irene and Kate ganged up on John, teasing him about his height. “Yeah, you’re actually pretty short for a guy,” Kate said, looking him over head to toes. “How tall are you? I never gave it much thought but damn. Short doesn’t even cover it.”</p>
<p>“Kate’s right, you’re a tiny guy compared to Sherlock,” Irene nodded, poking John in the shoulder. He put on a poker face, staring into the abyss as both girls picked on him. </p>
<p>And then, a wild Greg appeared. To everyone’s dismay, he was wearing striped shorts and a crumpled tank top that did his tanned complexion no justice. In a way, he and Sherlock were very similar. Both had days where they dressed spectacularly and to the nines. The rest, they looked like hobos that were hunted by Ronald McDonald who had zero respect or dignity for themselves (don’t ask). </p>
<p>“I was awoken by the sound of mockery,” Greg yawned, head bumping on the doorframe. Then, as if struck by lighting, he came to life, energetically clapping and saying, “Where is it? Show me the object of ridicule!”</p>
<p>“Irene and Kate are making fun of John’s height,” Sherlock said, setting the second aquarium on the counter, the stale water splashing on the glass frame. </p>
<p>John turned on his heels to see Greg, who cracked his knuckles and came in to grab a bite. “A moment ago Irene was having a meltdown about being shorter than Kate, and now they’re saying I’m too short for a guy.”</p>
<p>“Two centimeters!” Irene cursed under her breath. “I call bullshit. It’s rigged.”</p>
<p>“I marked it how it is.”</p>
<p>“Hey there, don’t get <em>short </em>with John,” Greg said, a shit-eating grin on his face as the pun sank in. Kate and Sherlock groaned at the use of figurative language, John chuckled, and Irene sighed. </p>
<p>“Greg, don’t think so… <em>little </em>of Irene for this,” John giggled, accepting the smack on his back from her for such an atrocious pun. “I’m not even mad, this is hilarious. Sorry.”</p>
<p>“You’re both so childish.” Irene sipped on her own lemonade. It tasted sour under the current circumstances. “One of these days, I’ll be taller than you all and then we will see who cowers in darkness.”</p>
<p>That startled a laugh out of Sherlock. “Improbable. Your growth spurt is long over, Irene. You’ve been this height since fourteen. I estimate you’re… hundred and sixty-four centimeters tall. That’d make Kate one-sixty-six. Not that different to the naked eye.”</p>
<p>“Shut your cake hole, pinetree,” she flipped him off. “You’re even taller than Greg, you don’t know how it feels to be short.”</p>
<p>“You never complained about it until now.”</p>
<p>“It’s about time I caught up, innit?”</p>
<p>Sherlock licked his lips, regarding Irene as though he were her tired nanny. Usually it was the other way around. But this moose of a Brit hadn’t a clue of what it felt like to not be able to reach your favourite item in the cupboard, having to use chairs or <em>Mission: Impossible</em> climbing skills to become a domestic mountain goat to get what your heart desired. He only had to lift his arm. That’s it. Luxury, that’s what his height meant.</p>
<p>“Whatever, giraffe,” Irene snapped, her shoulders sagging. “I <em>will</em> make you regret your height. And yours too, Greg. Those puns are unforgivable.”</p>
<p>“Oh no!” Greg feigned fear but moved on immediately, no sign of worry lingering on his face. “Anyway, I’m going to town. Gotta buy new tools for Hudders.”</p>
<p>“Oh, uhm,” Sherlock said, halting as he rounded the cashier’s desk. “Can you… give me a lift?”</p>
<p>“What for?” Kate, Irene, and Greg asked in unison, startling Sherlock as if he were a deer in headlights. </p>
<p>“I uh, have a training session.”</p>
<p>“Huh? Where? Are you exercising? You don’t like getting sweaty even when your body requires it to cool itself in summer!” Irene said, intrigued. Sherlock looked mildly put out. </p>
<p>“I started attending boxing classes,” he explained, pushing past her and Kate. “Who knows when it’ll come in handy? Also, as a future Consulting Detective, I need to know the art of self-defense.”</p>
<p>“When did you want to tell me this?” </p>
<p>“Are you my minder? No. And it’s not like you asked.”</p>
<p>“Please behave,” John said mildly, but forcefully enough to stop the siblings from bickering. Sherlock turned to Greg, who happily consumed the rest of the sandwiches akin to a vacuum, or a very hungry beagle. </p>
<p>“So, will you take me to the mall?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Greg shrugged, drinking the last of Mrs Hudson’s purple lemonade straight from the jug. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled distastefully at the man’s manners. “Anthea’s teaching you, isn’t she?”</p>
<p>“You know her?”</p>
<p>“‘Course. She’s an old friend of mine and my… Well. We worked together a few years back before I opened the Shack. She’ll teach you a lot.”</p>
<p>“I figured. When are we going? The session starts at four.”</p>
<p>“It’s three twenty…. Let’s say in fifteen minutes.” Greg smelled his armpit and grimaced. “I need a shower. So three thirty-five we go.”</p>
<p>“Alright.” Sherlock left, closely followed by John, who ordered Kate to polish the fish bowls in his absence. Both girls exchanged bored glances, perfectly aware of the fact that the disaster bisexual and the chaotic gay were going to snog the shit out of each other. Boys will be boys. </p>
<p>Greg left for his due shower shortly after. But the realization how tiny Irene was compared to everyone else hit her in full force. For once in her life she wanted to experience being taller than the NBA players around her. However, Sherlock correctly pointed out that she wouldn’t grow an inch anymore, that prat. She’s inherited this after both her biological parents, namely her late mother whom she never met since she died during childbirth. </p>
<p>As Kate begrudgingly got to finishing John’s cleaning spree, Irene wandered around the Shack, questioning whether she should artificially enhance her height -- but how?</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>John collapsed onto his unmade bed, blissed out from kissing Sherlock for the past ten minutes while he was supposed to pack spare clothes for his training session at the mall. Sherlock had left when Greg called him from the ground floor, presumably less smelly and properly dressed. John had placed one last kiss to his temple before bidding him a farewell. Life felt good. Although, it’s been a while since he’d exercised himself. He took up running at uni, with occasional visits to the gym to stay in shape amid the burden of studying for his subjects. It served as a good neutral ground to let out some steam when stress became too much to handle. Which, in the past two years, ebbed and flowed unexpectedly like a tsunami, even though the fallout of it differed greatly depending on his home life circumstances. </p>
<p>Yesterday’s conversation with Sherlock stuck out to him. He found it adorable how forthcoming Sherlock was in his curiosity about John and everything that concerned him. The immeasurable comfort and domesticity between them didn’t even feel new, as though it had always been present. He chuckled to himself; is this what those alleged ‘soulmate’ connections were like? But one thing bugged him. Now, he had nothing against Sherlock asking him about his family, but he’d been honest when he told him that he doesn’t know how to talk about ‘everything’ -- he’s used to shutting up about it, letting it sink to the deepest crevices of his being to rot there. Hence the reference to Greg, who knows most of what had happened over the years. His family was a headache at the best of times, and at the worst… </p>
<p>Hm. He supposed that he should not let his decision regarding Greg’s offer sit until the very last moment, but in the midst of his happiness he really had less than zero desire to think of it. But he had to. They’d been draining John for ages, his parents, come to think of it. And Greg was speaking the truth when he said that they cannot command him -- he’s an adult for God’s sake. And it’s not like he’s dependable on them, either, now that Greg offered his support. But on the other hand, he didn’t want Greg to think that he’s going to leech off of him…. Though, his grunkle wouldn’t ever think that, would he? They were close, the two of them. Thick as thieves. Greg favoured honesty and forthcoming attitude just like John, so he wouldn’t say what he doesn’t mean. </p>
<p>But… is it right to leave his parents like this? It’d be different under the condition that they had an argument -- that would leave him the rightful option to evacuate that house in Canada basically immediately and with no initial regrets. </p>
<p>What would he do after, though? Go live with Greg, of course, but… would it be that easy? A part of him longed for this to be over. Hell, it felt like he had done it already. Freed himself from those toxic people, semi moved on, all that. His spirit pushed his body out of the figurative restraints towards the exit, and his mind only lightly refused the soft, albeit calculated nudge. </p>
<p>Heaving a ragged sigh, John sat up, worrying his lip between his teeth. He reached for his phone, absentminded and unbothered by the outside world for the moment. Swiping his thumb up, the screen unlocked (no need for password at the Shack), and his finger tapped on the Messenger icon. Curious how he, Irene, nor Sherlock made a group chat for them yet. Actually, they haven’t even sent out friend requests, even though it’s understandable since they talk to each other daily. </p>
<p>The only chats on display were the ones with Greg, Mrs Hudson (if she needed help understanding internet slang or memes), Kate, the Queen Group (new name since Freddie’s addition to the group chat), and then Sam Winchester. He usually deleted the chats over time so as not to clutter the space; a habit he got when his mother started spamming him during her dazed stupors. Out of sight, out of mind. </p>
<p>The strange thing was that no one messaged him since… March? True, his parents preferred calling over Messenger to berate him verbally because it’s faster, but even when he departed straight for Oregon from uni, they usually hit him up at least at the beginning of the holidays. He checked the spam inbox, requests, nothing. Not that it surprised him. The moment he had gotten into university in Toronto, it was clear that the rift in their family dynamic would become a Marianna trench. And neither side put in the effort. John tried, even though reluctantly, but his conscience wouldn’t let him be despite the protests of his petiness. </p>
<p>And now he stared at his mostly inactive Messenger. Kind of forgotten, but he dealt with that. Or so he told himself. </p>
<p>Well. Why let it bother him now? Sherlock, Greg, Irene, Mrs Hudson -- they served as his anchor in this. A solid beacon of light, a lighthouse amid the dark, bewildered sea of his torturous thoughts. True, only Greg knew the full depth of his traumas and dilemmas (for now, and perhaps Mrs Hudson as well), but all these people? They did more for him than his family ever combined, save for his younger sibling. </p>
<p>As he was ready to close the app, a notification beeped, phone vibrating in his hand. Sam Winchester sent him a message. In the two or three weeks since their departure for Florida, Disneyland, he and Sam became friends over the internet to keep in touch. He had Dean in his friend list too, but he allegedly spent more of his free time checking their guns and then sleeping or flirting with random women (unsuccessfully, the hunt is an obstacle at the most inconvenient of times, funnily enough). He checked the notification. </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>How’s your crazy town? 
We’ve returned from a stakeout
ironically in need of steaks</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>John lifted an eyebrow, intrigued. He typed out a response. </p>
<p>
  <em>Why steaks?
Goofy too big of 
a bitch to let go
 of your limbs?</em>
</p>
<p>The reply came immediately -- a simple, disturbing: <em><strong>yes</strong></em>. John tutted, sending back a GIF of a blonde woman looking bamboozled as mathematical equations appeared around her head. Sam gave him a laughing reaction to it, sending a GIF of his own where Michael Scott from the Office looked uncomfortable in his own skin, roughly translating into, ‘<em>Mhm, yeah, well, that’s life</em>’. In hopes of wanting to make Sam feel better, he wrote him an update on his, Irene’s, and Sherlock’s adventures. </p>
<p>
  <em>Have I told you
about Nicolas Cage?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>?? the actor??
What about him?</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>John let out a laugh. Sam saw a lot of things, killed even more unholy creatures, but did he ever face an impostor this vile, this determined on wiping his enemies out? Huh, probably yes, but Cage could be a brand new addition. John typed out a chunk of text using a lot of similes and unnecessary metaphors he came up with on the spot to give Sam the best review of his two encounters with Nicolas Cage. The latter, most recent meeting was blurry in John’s mind, but he’d been running around an old part of the town on four hours of sleep, who could blame him? He’ll forever be salty about this maniac. Sam read John’s texts as soon as he sent them, laughing his figurative ass off in the messages. </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>I’d suggest getting holy
water next time you go
anywhere in RF john</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>yeah I guess that’s not 
a bad idea at all, there
is a church somewhere
but it’s abandoned</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>In that case, don’t go there</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>why not? zombies gonna
whoop my ass?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>Idk, depends whether it’s 
catholic or protestant</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>aye aye captain</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>Good
Dean says hi btw</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>hi back, dean!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>Yeah he gave a thumbs up
Brought back steaks for 
Goofy
I’m not looking forward to this</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>what a vacation</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>Right? And guess what
2 of my shirts got lost
</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>:0</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>&gt;:c</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>:/</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>:’(</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>i’m not sure disney 
gives refunds on shirts
but you can try anyway</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>Walt Disney better have
some cash spare, I like 
my shirts</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>Okay well, we gotta go
Wish us luck, and don’t
get caught by Nicolas 
Cage, alright?</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>i’ll do my best ma’am
see ya, don’t get caught
by Goofy</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>I’ll never watch Disney 
cartoons again after this</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>Sam logged off, the green dot disappearing where it sat at his profile picture. John put his phone on the nightstand and lied down on his bedding, joints popping as he stretched. He turned on his side, sighing. He already missed Sherlock. Ridiculous, yes, but so what? He’s in love. </p>
<p>Everything quietened. Outside the Shack he could hear birds chirping, his window overlooking the tall pine forest. Maybe he could take up running again, in the end. At least the few times that Sherlock will be gone for his training. He knew how to fight, Greg had taught him self-defense for years. Plus, spending time doing their own things would be beneficial for both of them. Have a bit of a breathing ground. On the other hand, John was so tired he’ll probably let that idea sink. His eyelids fell shut, face burrowing into a soft pillow. His right cheek moved up, making his lips pout, and he let himself nap. </p>
<p>Until Irene barged in.</p>
<p>“JOHN!” she bellowed, kicking the door open. John shot up yelping, essentially slipping on his blanket and he tumbled on the carpeted floor. Irene stayed in the doorframe, hands on hips.</p>
<p>“What? What’s wrong?” John blinked, out of whack and beyond confusion. He coughed patting around to find a steady surface to pull himself up. The world spun and dizzied his vision into blackness momentarily as his blood pressure evened out. “Is the house on fire?”</p>
<p>“No! But I need your help,” Irene said, dragging him out of the room at once. John bumped his shoulder against the doorframe, wincing from the dull, throbbing pain it sent into his collarbone. They rushed upstairs, John barely orientating in space and time or fabric of the universe in general. </p>
<p>Irene made her way to Sherlock’s suitcase where he hid the journal. She furiously listed through it, mumbling unintelligible thoughts to the pages. John warily rubbed his eyes, unsure how his help was required exactly. </p>
<p>“And I’m here because…?”</p>
<p>“I’m sick and tired of my being <em>short</em>. There has to be something that can fix it in the journal.”</p>
<p>“You’re still fired up about that? Why?”</p>
<p>“It’s the principle of the thing, John!” Irene glared. “Do you know how you ignore certain things and then you notice them and suddenly you can’t <em>un</em>notice it? Yeah. I’m going through that right the fuck now, and I’m fuming.”</p>
<p>“I’ve heard,” John said, ruffling his hair. So much for peace. “I don’t get it Irene. You’re normally confident for all three of us combined, what’s the matter?”</p>
<p>Irene looked at John, her face a complicated mix of thoughts and emotions. Mostly irritation and fury, but no sadness. “Once. Just once I want to see how being tall feels like. Listen, I know my advantages, but… Yeah, no. I’m just petty and want to look down on bitches for five minutes. Is that too much to ask?”</p>
<p>“Not really,” John considered, yawning. He nodded at the journal. “Can I have a look?” Irene handed him the book and he read through a few pages. The journal itself focused more on the magical fauna and flora, plus a couple cursed objects here and there. What was written in the other two? </p>
<p>However, he and Irene soon flipped to a page where beautiful sketches of crystals growing from the ground in various shapes and sizes. John read out loud the following description:</p>
<p>
  <em>‘Height Altercation 101: Just Get Crystals!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’ve heard tales of giant squirrels and miniature deer deep within the forest’s deepest shadows have led me to believe that there’s ought to be a height altering property of sorts in Reichenbach Falls. 
A particularity of the place is that one needs to be present during a certain timeframe of the day to witness the natural phenomena of the crystals. They’re predominantly of the colours magenta and turquoise. Perhaps Mother Nature felt festive on the day she invented them. 
However, they’re quite powerful. Influenced by light and its projection via the physical properties of the crystals, it is possible to enlarge or minimise oneself by standing in the light beam the crystal projects when the sun shines on it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The turquoise beam can shrink the person (along with their clothes, convenient!) whilst the magenta beam allows one to become bigger, taller. L and I experimented with it for hours on end last week; I must say I was amused by some of his antics. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We haven’t taken samples, since our home is already cluttered as it is, including the basement, and I promised to leave things bigger than myself out in the wild. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The crystals can be found in a secret sanctuary in the northern part of the forest. </em>
</p>
<p>“Interesting,” Irene murmured, pouting appreciatively at the passage. John closed the journal and picked up Sherlock’s spare backpack in the corner, packing the book inside and throwing it over his shoulder. “Will you take me there?”</p>
<p>John lifted a sardonic eyebrow and yawned into his fist. “Obviously? C’mon, Scoutie. But we’re <em>not</em> taking giant-ass crystals in the Shack either.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take that.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the Winchesters are back! (semi) just a couple more chapters... wish them luck<br/>and!! crystals!! borrowed from the original GF episode, but the circumstances and outcome differ ofc &gt;:)<br/>I hope you peeps are good! see you in 5</p>
<p>Updated: 25.3. 2021<br/>Word count: 4601<br/>Thnaks you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care and don't get *short* with anyone :D</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. Irene Had a Little Lamp III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is affection</p><p>episode 9, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so get this, yesterday I was making myself coffee in the coffee machine that uses capsules (latte) so I put the milk one there and turned it on.... and realised i didn't put my cup under it!! the whole counter was covered in hot milk (thankfuly not dripping yet), but like, it was my last dose of latte and i had no desire to let it go to waste, so like the big (small) brain woman that I am, i pur in the coffee capsule in and let it drip on top of the milk while I strategically scooped the liquid into a cup... i could've just scooped the milk and then add the coffee. call me a dumbass but hey, pre-mixed, airiated coffee ain't half bad, but I'm lying to myself.<br/>Anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy today's shenanigans!<br/>Special thanks to bee, dee, and to musicals that keep me groovy</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The near-constant buzz of mosquitos annoyed the ever-loving shit out of Irene and John. They set out on their quest immediately, John borrowing Mrs Hudson’s car (after politely asking for permission, of course) to drive them to the north of the spread-out pine forest. After a twenty-minute drive, John parked the vehicle on an offside road so as not to clutter the already too narrow main, dusty passage. The two of them followed the small scribble of a map on the journal’s page, having to go off the tourist pathway, which made John uneasy. </p><p>“We should find some clear orientational marks,” Irene said, her eyes jumping from pine tree to pine tree to do as her scout guides in England taught her. She pointed at a fallen tree trunk overgrown with moss, wild beige mushrooms, and cute yellow and red flowers sticking out on top. “How about that log over there?”</p><p>“Yeah, why not,” John sniffed, then sneezed a high-pitched ‘<em>achoo!</em>’ with such a force that made him bend in the waist and knees. He ran the back of his hand under his itchy nose, eyes squeezed shut, grunting in exasperation. When he opened them, a frown creased his forehead. “What?”</p><p>Irene bit her bottom lip to suppress the ‘aw!’ she almost let out. “Nothing just -- that was the cutest sneeze I’ve ever seen. Like a puppy!”</p><p>“Oh, shush. Too much pollen in the air. I hate it.”</p><p>“Tell me about it, my right eye always wells up,” Irene said, wiping said organ using a tissue before pocketing it. “The doom of a scout: allergies. Alright let’s go. We can bitch about our genetics along the way.”</p><p>And off they went, carefully progressing throughout the pine forest, hidden from the sharp sunbeams by cool, abundantly green crowns of the trees around them. The journal served as their primary guide, Irene picking up cues in their environment so that they wouldn’t get lost on their trail back. The spot with the crystals itself wasn’t that far off, in the end. Perhaps fifteen minutes by foot, but there were lots of turns and descends throughout. </p><p>Walking downhill, the overcast of shadows became chillier and colder. The local sounds of wildlife tuned out, but remained, although distantly. It didn’t go eerily quiet and sombre like when John and Sherlock went on Gloria Scott’s island, at least. This had a… regular atmosphere to it, a sprinkle of mystery hunt too. </p><p>And there, on the path ahead of them on a wide glade rose numerous turquoise and magenta crystals, all of different shapes and sizes, sticking out from the ground at strange angles. A few of them reflected and channelled the sun’s rays where it sneaked between the thick leaves and branches, redirecting it to shine on the ground. In the twilight of the glade, it looked magical, otherworldly. John and Irene gaped, eyes wide with wonder and awe. No matter how old people were, moments like these would always transform them into giddy, excited children for whatever short period of time the revelation lasted. </p><p>“That’s… incredible,” John said, eyes twinkling in the gloom of the pine trees. “Like a fairytale, but better.”</p><p>“Yeah, I bet if we put up a light show, we could have an unlimited disco party in here,” Irene said, crouching to get a better look at a tiny turquoise crystal at her feet. It was deep-rooted in the ground, resistant to her pull. No way she’d be able to haul it out. </p><p>“Do you see this beam?”</p><p>“Which one? There are two.”</p><p>“The magenta one. What did it say in the journal -- that this makes things bigger? Oh yeah. Turquoise reverses the effect and vice versa. Sort of like yin and yang, though that’s about good and bad in broader terms.”</p><p>“Are you comparing size beams to ancient Chinese philosophy?”</p><p>“Mmm, yeah. It makes no sense, so let’s just ignore me. I do that sometimes. How do we try this out?” John looked around, setting his backpack on the ground, resting the journal on top of it. </p><p>Irene got to her knees and grabbed a stick. She put it under the scrutiny of the magenta beam and watched as the stick elongated endlessly, and continued even after the far end expanded beyond the border of the light until it cracked in two from the added weight. “Kinda like Pinoccio’s nose, don’t you think?” </p><p>John tilted his head, contemplating. “I suppose. It’s weird. Are you sure you want to try this out? The journal didn’t specify what it does to humans.”</p><p>“Pfft, please,” Irene cocked an eyebrow, as if daring the crystals to do something malevolent to her. She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s just light. And there’s the blue one to shrink me back if it gets out of hand.”</p><p>John didn’t seem convinced. Still hesitant, he gently shook his head, crossing his arms over the expanse of his chest hidden under a burgundy t-shirt. “I don’t know. I can’t wrap my head around why this got you so riled up.”</p><p>Irene rolled her eyes in a very Sherlockian fashion (so much for siblings) and tipped her head to the side before speaking up. “John. I told you in the Shack. Just a minute being tall. I want to see what the weather’s like up there,” she poked the air with her forefinger towards the sky. She put on a puppy eyed stare, pouting her lips to make her case safe and sound. </p><p>John’s gaze shifted from her to the magenta beam and back. He felt queasy about the whole idea, but he could understand why Irene would want to try it out. Hell, he himself would probably permanently make himself taller a few years ago if he weren’t okay with his height as it was. If anything, his being short brought an advantage if a guy pissed him off -- it was easier to kick somebody’s nuts like this; or punch them in the dick. Happiness can be found in the smallest of things, no pun intended. </p><p>“Fine,” he relented, exhaling sharply through his nose. He sat back on the heels of his feet, rummaging through the backpack to find a pen. Might as well take notes and fill in the gaps. </p><p>“Seriously? I’m an experiment?” Irene laughed, shaking off the agitation from her limbs when she stood to her full height, hyping herself up. </p><p>“You called this on yourself. Someone’s gotta pay attention if this goes horribly wrong, you know.”</p><p>“True. Should I just… run through it?”</p><p>“Hm… Yes, I think that would be the safest option. The beam is quick to work its magic, better not risk irreversible effects, right?”</p><p>“Yep. Okay. On the count of three.” Irene backed up a few paces and took the stand of a runner about to start a marathon. She put her left foot forward, her right behind and back hunched. “One. Two. Three!”</p><p>She sprinted, her muscles pushing her towards the magenta beam illuminating the gloom of shadows surrounding her and John. Centimeters in front of it she hesitated, heart skipping a beat and tempo faltering, but her scout dignity kicked in a backup generator and she ran through the beam in two long strides. It took five more until her pace slowed and she could stop without tripping over. </p><p>“So?” she breathed, inspecting her hands to see if there was any other visible change to her skin. Nope. Just plain ol’ hands of a half-english, half-german woman. “Anything? How do I look? Tell me I wasn’t bamboozled and my head didn’t grow a pair of antlers.”</p><p>John got up from where he sat, the journal tucked under his arm. When they came face to face, she noticed that she didn’t have to tip up her head like she usually had to. <em>They were the same height</em>. John’s right eyebrow lifted, lips pursed as he checked Irene for anomalies. </p><p>“No antlers,” he said, chuckling. He circled around her. “No wings, no tails, no extra toes. You’re fine. And as tall as me. Wow.”</p><p>When Irene stood up on her tiptoes, she was even taller than that. Giddy, she clapped, excited like a puppy who saw its owner come back home from work. “This is amazing! I’ll do it one more time --”</p><p>“Whoa! Wait,” John grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her from the magenta beam. “You don’t know what it does if you do it repeatedly.”</p><p>“Let’s find out, then,” Irene said, shaking John off. She quickly ran through the beam again before John could stop her. This time, her new height was more noticeable even to her. “Look! I’m tall!” She twirled around like a kindergartener who danced to YouTube Kids music, high on slurpees (which, to be honest, happened more than once already, and John had witnessed one such occasion). </p><p>“Irene,” John sighed, much like an exhausted parent. He walked up to her, and this time <em>he</em> had to tilt his head. Ha! “Don’t push your luck. What if you get stuck like this?”</p><p>“I don’t see any problem with that,” she told him, looming over him in the same way Sherlock did over them when he got cocky. Smartarse won’t be able to anymore. John’s scowl made her frown. “What? Don’t you want to try this for yourself? It’s amazing, honestly!”</p><p>“No, not really,” John grimaced, turning his neck to look at the turquoise beam opposite the magenta one. “I’m happy as I am, thank you very much. Would you shrink back now? It’s making me nervous.”</p><p>“Why on earth? It’s bloody amazing, John. Look how long my limbs are! I can make them into floating spaghetti if I wiggle them just right! I’m fine, don’t be skittish.”</p><p>“We have to be careful,” John cleared his throat, “because we have no idea what the author found out. Probably not much since there’s not enough written about this except for the sketches. It did say it enlarges you, and your clothes too, so I assume it means your organs are intact. But for how long? What if there are drawbacks? What if your cardiovascular system won’t be able to keep up the oxygen and blood supply? And your bones? What if their density decimated after this stretch? You don’t know that the light doesn’t make you tall by using up your own body, Irene. I don’t want to risk your health because you feel petty about your normal height.”</p><p>“Sheesh, John. Why do you have to go all medical on me?”</p><p>“Because that’s what I’m supposed to be doing! I have the right to be concerned about your health. And I’d rather not push our luck and risk your getting injured. So <em>please</em>, shrink back. You said you needed only a while like this and then you’d let it go. Please, Irene. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”</p><p>Irene pouted her lips, but John’s stare, soft and yet demanding, told her that he would not back out or yield. True, she did say she only wanted to feel what being a tall person obtained, but… the temptation outweighed her sincerity. However, John’s stance remained unfaltering, unwavering, and that made her feel smaller than she was in reality. Strange how human behaviour worked on the psychology of an individual. </p><p>Shoulders sagging, Irene nodded. “Fine,” she said, shrugging. “You’re right. Even though I think that magic wouldn’t let me die like this.”</p><p>“You can’t be sure of that,” John argued, rubbing his neck as a crease formed between his eyebrows. “Sam and Dean encountered a lot of bullshit on the roads, as they put it, and it wasn’t pretty. Just because something seems harmless and not bad doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous.”</p><p>He did have a point. Her excitement clouded her judgement, though she still thought it silly that this was somehow supposed to be unhelpful. She really did feel okay with no drawbacks or pains. If this was a source of evil and hurt, she would’ve noticed that by now. Also, the journal would state any unsafe or catastrophic facts, wouldn’t it? </p><p>“Alright, well,” she said eventually. John studied her carefully. “Sure you don’t want to try it out, though?”</p><p>“Move your ass to the turquoise beam, Irene,” John pointed in the direction, gaze stern. </p><p>“Fine! Jeez, you’re too serious sometimes. We’re college kids, we’re supposed to do dumb stuff, ya know? Peak of life and all that?”</p><p>“Yeah, but not with magical shit like this. I’ll play truth or dare where I have to eat pickles with ice cream, not where I have to shrink myself, thanks. I’m just trying to be safe.”</p><p>Irene waved him off, huffing out a laugh. “Nah, I get it. I appreciate it. Wait, do you think someone tried to enlarge their dick with this?”</p><p>“Ew, I don’t need to know!” John cringed, taking a step back from the magenta light and crystal. “That’s too desperate.”</p><p>“Happy with your equipment as it is, I take it?” Irene wiggled her eyebrows in her innocent lesbian suggestivity. She barked out a laugh when John burrowed his face in his hands, the tips of his ears going pink. He looked longingly to the exit path from the glade, absolutely done with the world for the day. “Sorry, can’t help myself.”</p><p>“A lesbian making dick jokes, why am I surprised?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Irene got back into her running pose and repeated what she did, passing two times underneath the turquoise light. Once done, her height returned to her original measurements. </p><p>“I make dick jokes to see how uncomfortable you can get,” she explained, dusting off her shorts. A bit of dirt got inside her shoes, but nothing unbearable. John accepted it, either finding no strength to argue or just phenomenally accepting of her antics. Perhaps both. “Well. There goes my height. I hope you’re happy for letting me stay a hobbit.”</p><p>John smiled, walking backwards in the direction where they came from, Irene following him. Ugh, she hated walking uphill. At least her thighs would get some exercise. “I’d rather you are a hobbit and healthy than a moose with a streak of health problems.”</p><p>“That’s awfully specific. I love that. Oh, shit. Go on, just have to tie my shoelaces.”</p><p>“I’ll wait on top of the hill,” John said over his shoulder, arranging the backpack’s straps into a more comfortable position. </p><p>Irene knelt down and got to re-tie the wobbly lace on her right foot. Stupid shoes. Why didn’t she buy the other pair you just slipped on? Would save her time.… Oooh, what’s that? A glimmer from under a pile of dead leaves caught her attention. Her eyes darted to John, whose back was turned to her, pace slow and leisurely. Irene’s hand snatched whatever lied under the leaves like the cheap crow her human nature secretly was (ever so slowly becoming a Strider) and hid it in the pocket of her shorts. The object was tiny, rectangular in shape, but she would see more as soon as they got back to the Shack. </p><p>“Irene?” John called her, his dark silhouette her guide as she walked up and out of the glade, leaving the giant crystals behind.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m going!”</p><p>~</p><p>Back at the Shack, exhaustion and fatigue of the past few days seemed to have finally caught up with John. Once he was stripped of any and all energy resources his body scraped together, he was reduced to a mere husk of a person. The last reserves of the electrical impulses his brain generated sent out signals to his limbs and a couple other basic functions that kept him going, tuning out the excessive input of outer sounds and noises of the world. </p><p>Irene seemed happy enough after their short-lived adventure. John didn’t intend to rain on her parade, but as a medical student, enlarging of limbs and the human body as a whole sounded like a bad idea. Sure, magic or whatever may make it easy peasy, lemon squeezy, but it made John stressy, depressy, lemon zesty at the thought of something awful rupturing inside Irene. Tendons, ligaments, tissues… he had a mental list of what could go wrong. </p><p>Luckily, Irene yielded and listened to his pleas, and they went home. After a walk through the pollen-filled forest and two more glades, John’s nose and eyes itched, though he had no idea what caused it; it’s been years since he had allergy tests done. He remembered that as a kid, it had usually been weeds that set him off and he had taken special medication for it, which helped abate the effects of the pollen and whatever else he’d breathed in. But now he couldn’t be sure. Irene was better off, although she had to wipe her right eye almost constantly as it watered until they got back to Mrs Hudson’s car. She thanked him for taking her there, which was no problem, really. At least he knows what spot to never show Sherlock. They both agreed not to mention this, it could turn into a ridiculous competition between the siblings and John has no intentions of watching them outgrow one another.</p><p>And now, as John stepped over the front door threshold, he couldn’t care less about magenta or turquoise light beams that would serve insecure guys as means to make their dicks bigger. And he knew of a few who would take the offer up. Not that it was his problem, he’s happy as mother nature created him, thank you very much. </p><p>He put the car keys on a drawer next to an umbrella stand by the door and yawned. Irene kicked off her shoes haphazardly into a corner and went to the kitchen to fetch herself a glass of water. The same thought passed John’s mind, but his tired vessel decided it was not worth the energy. If anything, he can crawl into the bathroom and lick the tap there like a hamster if he wakes up thirsty. </p><p>With a Plan B, he dragged his feet up the seventeen steps of the hellish staircase, unbuttoning his shirt as he ascended. His fingers felt numb, and his only lifetime goal at the moment was to get to his bed without missing it. Although, even if he did, he wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. Any surface horizontal enough for rest was acceptable at this point. </p><p>Not that he’s never experienced fragmented sleep before (his university semesters are a testament to that), but the past week has been a wild ride. It deserved its own category. First there was the initial nervousness before his date with Sherlock, which had its adrenaline rush accompanying it due to the mirror fiasco, after which they’d spent the rest of the night and the wee hours after midnight kissing and goofing around with the mystery journal. For some reason, he woke up after four hours of sleep, and later he dozed for another four, though he mostly listened to Sherlock talk about the musicals he liked, snuggled up to him while the ambient sound of rain drummed on the outside of the Shack’s rooftop. And then… well, the whole of yesterday has been a blur in the present moment, to be honest. There was fury aimed at Janine for being a bitch to Irene, the chase after clues for digging up dirt on Janine, a weird statue, a rose, Alex Hirsh, and Nicolas Cage. Also beavers. And Greg in county jail. The mere memory of the events made John question his sanity. And yes, he’s spent the following twelve hours in bed (well… not really, but he told that to Sherlock so that he wouldn’t overthink it), but no proper sleep ever came upon him. It’s like he was the polar opposite of princess Aurora, repelling sleep instead of snoring through years like a comatose patient. </p><p>He <em>did </em>nap for a bit, but he woke up after midnight, disoriented at first. Then he’d padded downstairs to grab a snack, finding Greg asleep on the sofa in the living room, his brand new TV on. After John had stuffed his cheeks with a poorly made sandwich consisting of ham, lettuce, and a sprinkle of barbeque sauce (because why not), he trailed back upstairs. Irene and Sherlock had also turned in early, all three of them equally exhausted. But John, however he tried, couldn’t fall back asleep. Fuck microsleep and REM cycles. He’d tossed and turned for two hours, tried out numerous lying positions, but he would not get the peace he’d wanted. In the end he decided to stay up, watching random YouTube videos on his phone, then reading articles about bees. Sherlock mentioned passingly once he would like to study them up close one day, so why not get ahead of him a little and surprise him? </p><p>But still, three more hours had passed and the Mystery Shack stayed silent. Greg also slept in, which was rare. He was usually the first person to be up and about, even before Mrs Hudson came in to work. Today’s morning, though, was slow as fuck. John got bored, but there was no way he was going to go and wake up Sherlock and Irene prematurely. He’d settled for doing a bit of stretching in his room, exercising a little, then taking a shower. But seeing as it had turned to only six in the morning, he wanted to bang his head on his door. Six hours awake and no signs of exhaustion that would make him sleepy. Great. He had journaled for a while until he heard the attic room door open, and the stairs creak under somebody’s feet. He’d shoved his journal behind his nightstand and got up. He had left his own door open and had his purple and yellow glass stained window opened to let some fresh air in. Not that he was ashamed of writing into a journal (or diary, whatever), but he’d rather no one else read it. For now. He used it to catalogue some of his worst childhood memories, which helped him distance himself from the events, and it could be depressive in some passages. And despite what Sherlock had said, well. John still felt like it would burden him too much. At this point in time, at least, and he didn’t plan on bringing this up so drastically early on in their relationship. But hey, if Sherlock desired it, he had the pass to ask Greg. </p><p>John pushed the door to his room open, eyelids heavy. His leaded limbs dragged him down, but he had enough consciousness left to shrug off his shirt and tank top before diving onto his mattress. Ah, bliss. The second his skin made contact with the soft material, his muscles began to relax, and the complicated knot in his head that kept him functioning started dissolving, and the world faded into nothing but a gentle murmur. </p><p>He faintly registered the door opening a fraction, but he’s been so out of it he paid no attention to whoever peeked inside. Probably Irene. If she didn’t rouse him, then it was nothing. </p><p>~</p><p>The session with Anthea lasted an hour, and she and Sherlock began working on the basics of boxing. A bit of a warm up beforehand hyped his blood pressure enough, and now, almost two hours later, he felt sated. Anthea advised him to stretch after the session too to avoid muscle ache the next day, so he did just that in the five minutes left until the full hour was up. No need to experience the lactic acid buildup and soreness in its full force tomorrow. </p><p>He’s met up with Lestrade outside of the mall gym. John’s grunkle had done most of his shopping by now, but he still had to visit the local gardener, because apparently there’s been a new delivery and the owner texted him they had new flower seeds for purchase. </p><p>“Mind if we stop by?” Lestrade asked, eyeing him curiously. Sherlock observed his reflection in the gym’s see-through windows. He wasn’t <em>that</em> dishevelled. He surely didn’t smell like a gorilla -- he would <em>never</em>. </p><p>“No,” he said, his brain catching up to present. “Why does the gardener notify you every time there’s a new delivery?”</p><p>Lestrade smiled, the two walking out into the summer afternoon air. After three days of raining, the heat picked up its pace almost immediately, though thankfully the oppressive warmth wasn’t back yet. Sherlock could use a cold shower. </p><p>“Mrs Hudson likes her flower beds a lot,” he said by way of explanation. He navigated them to his car, backseats of which were covered in numerous paper bags, each containing whatever the upkeeper requested. Lestrade unlocked the car, locks clicking inside the four doors. “And the lady there owes me a favour because I helped her out years ago. Never intended her to actually owe me, but she insists and so far she repays me in flowers.”</p><p>“So she rings you whenever she gets an interesting new species,” Sherlock said, sitting in the passenger seat. He adjusted it more to his liking so that his knees didn’t ram into the dashboard. </p><p>“Yep.” Lestrade backed up out of the parking spot, then the lot of the mall. “I do like her flowers a lot. She makes the nicest arrangements, you’ll see. But I mostly take the seeds for Hudders to plant since it’s her passion.”</p><p>“You never gardened?”</p><p>“I did, long ago. That was even before the Shack opened. But… let’s say something happened and I couldn’t take care of it anymore. And it wouldn’t really fit the Mystery Shack aesthetic, eh?”</p><p>Sherlock chuckled, trying to imagine strawberries or tomatoes growing and sprouting from the ground around the Shack. “No, I suppose not.” Silence fell upon them, and Lestrade turned the radio on, switching it immediately to his trusty collection of 70s and 80s rock music. Sherlock let himself relax, gazing out into the streets they passed. Here and there were married couples with their children, or pets. Strange how many lives were playing out in front of him and all he got was a single look. </p><p>That got him thinking about John and his family again. He shot a quick glance at Lestrade behind the steering wheel who hummed to a song from David Bowie’s album <em>Aladdin Sane</em>, eyes diligently focused on the road, though his posture was relaxed. He rolled their windows down so that fresh breeze cooled the warm interior of the vehicle along with them, his left elbow sticking out as his fingers tapped into the rhythm of the music. He obviously knew much more about John’s background than Sherlock, but should he pry right now? He wanted to. Goddamn social cues and societal expectation bestowed upon relationships! </p><p>Maybe he should build it up. Ask the mundane questions first. Scratch that -- no questions concerning John were mundane. But yes, that could work. Start generally, and then narrow it down. Sherlock couldn’t care less what Lestrade thought of him, but he guessed that having good relations with John’s next of kin are in order. He didn’t have any strong positive or negative feelings regarding Lestrade, it’s not like they were pals or mates, as Mummy would comment on friends, but they were amiable enough. </p><p>Before Sherlock could formulate a question, though, Lestrade beat him to it. “So, how’s that tomato experiment going?” he asked, as if genuinely interested. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, debating whether he was trying to make small talk to pass time or if he truly was curious about Sherlock’s eccentric pursuits and hobbies. </p><p>“Uhm, so far -- quite well,” he replied, shifting in his seat. He didn’t begin fully, he lacked the proper dissecting equipment, but he made do with a couple acquired kitchen knives. Not that Lestrade noticed. “Though of course it doesn’t quite add up to the data I’d have from <em>real</em> eyes.”</p><p>“Sorry, kinda hard to get a hold of them,” Lestrade laughed, turning left at a crossroad. “Summer sales and all, everything’s out of stock. Should’ve made reservations.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted, shaking his head. A curl fell on his forehead and dangled in front of his lashes, hanging dangerously close to his eye. He hated when hair poked him right in his line of sight. Lestrade parked the car on a curb next to a small open lot and stopped the engine. </p><p>“Stay here, I won’t be long.” He got out, leaving the keys in the ignition, though he turned the engine off. Sherlock let his arms go limp, not having to unbuckle his seatbelt. He followed Lestrade’s back disappear behind a row of tree sapling planted in pots that rested on three joint tables. </p><p>He turned up the volume on the radio, switching between songs that sounded promising. Eventually, he leaned back in his seat and patted his bag for his phone. His heart skipped a beat when he didn’t get a hold of it. Then he remembered he left it at the Shack. Bummer. He could’ve been listening to Hamilton or Chicago. Instead, he listened to a song called ‘<em>Watch That Man</em>’ from Bowie, which actually wasn’t bad. </p><p>From what he remembered, his older brother Mycroft liked Bowie too. However, he never gave the singer much thought. Mostly, he steered aside from whatever reminded him of Mycroft. It’s been years, but he still got sad over his disappearance when he thought of him. But sitting here in Lestrade’s car and more or less forcefully having to listen to Bowie, he found that it wasn’t really as painful as he once imagined. It shed a little light on what his brother had liked while he was travelling in America…. </p><p>“Got it!” Lestrade tore open his side doors and plopped inside on his seat. He threw a packet full of flower seeds into Sherlock’s lap and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared, and he rather forcefully sped onto the road. “Do we stop at Angelo’s to get dinner?”</p><p>“Uhm, sure?” Sherlock shrugged, looking at him, confused. His movements were jerky and too controlled at the same time. Sherlock checked the side and rear view mirrors. In their reflection he caught a glimpse of a short woman, her face half covered by a pink silk scarf and a large pair of shades. She stopped on the sidewalk to watch them speeding away. She looked oddly familiar, the pink…. What got Lestrade riled up? He was good at concealing most of it, but it was strange. Oh well, a conman like him was full of mysteries. Goddamnit, now he’s making awful jokes like this in his head!</p><p>They halted at a red light, and Lestrade used the opportunity to light a cigarette. Sherlock stared longingly at it, unwilling to give himself away should Lestrade tell on him to his mum. He glanced out of the window, thinking up a plan to break up the awkward silence despite the radio playing for them. </p><p>Fine. Good. <em>Let’s talk about John</em>, Sherlock thought. He cleared his throat, making Lestrade look at him with raised eyebrows. He blew the smoke outside, Sherlock losing any possible chance of inhaling the precious nicotine. Damnit. “Uhm…. I was curious….”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Since when has John been visiting Reichenbach Falls?”</p><p>Lestrade’s dark eyebrows hitched once more, and he threw the cigarette outside on the road. “Hm. I first met John when he was a tiny guy, about three years old. It was at a family reunion back in Canada, and the families stayed at a hotel. I was what, nineteen? Nah, eighteen, going on nineteen. Anyway, I didn’t have much to do, I don’t talk to the prickish dickheads in the family if I don’t have to. But I saw small John play alone most of the time, exploring the grounds of the hotel. I snooped out what exact connection I had with him and then hung out with my nephew, simple as that.”</p><p>Sherlock’s mouth twitched. The way Lestrade spoke of John was that of endless affection and familial love. John held him up to the same regard, and Sherlock couldn’t be more glad that his boyfriend had at least one family member whom he could rely on. </p><p>“So, as days passed, I really took a liking to John. He was the sweetest kid, I swear. Kind, thoughtful, cute, cuddly,” he named the attributes, and Sherlock’s heart felt as though it could melt, imagining a young John, all big brown eyes and ruffled hair and chubby cheeks. Then Lestrade continued, though with less enthusiasm. “I got to meet his parents too. His mother was pregnant at the time with John’s sister, and seeing their whole fucked up family dynamic, I thought hey, I’ll take John to Oregon for a couple weeks.”</p><p>“Fucked up family dynamic?” Sherlock repeated, tampering down his interest which has been piqued. </p><p>Lestrade shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Long story.” Ah, alright. John didn’t have the chance to pass on the message yet, probably. “But I convinced his parents and we got a deal out of it. John got a break for most summers. At first he stayed only for two weeks, but as he grew up, we bargained for more. Eventually he stayed the whole two months, like he does now.”</p><p>Sherlock hummed in response. They arrived at Angelo’s. The time showed six o’clock in the afternoon, sharp. He’d ask more, fascinated by every single bit of life John had experienced prior to meeting Sherlock, but it could wait. </p><p>~</p><p>John slept like a log for hours before he resurfaced to the land of the living. His eyes snapped open suddenly, if blearily. He lay staring at the wall, hands tucked under his pillow. Yawning, he used his jelly-like legs to turn himself on his back, stretching out, back arching as his muscles sang praise to the luxurious movements. </p><p>Bliss. </p><p>Blinking his eyes into focus, he rubbed them with the knuckles of his forefingers to get out the blurriness. Huh. The room was illuminated in dark orange light. How long…?</p><p>“Oh, you’re awake!” Sherlock’s baritone made his head turn to the right. He sat cross legged in John’s wheely desk chair, fingers propped under his chin as he watched over John. “Good, stay here.” Having said that, he darted out of the room and disappeared inside the Shack, leaving a flabbergasted John behind. </p><p>He absentmindedly patted the width of his bed and his nightstand to reach his phone, which proved far more difficult than it should have. When he saw the time his eyes almost fell out of their sockets. “Nine?! I slept until nine?!”</p><p>Groaning, he let go of the phone, pushing it aside using the tips of his fingers. He bent one half of the pillow to cover his head with it, tuning out the world for a while longer. It was still evening, but he didn’t plan on falling asleep. Just napping. This way, his sleep cycle was going to be whack. </p><p>Muffled footsteps appeared inside the room again. He peeked through a slit of the pillow to see Sherlock come in and set something that clinked on his desk. Then he turned around in all his mightiness he carried himself around with and rested a hand on John’s bare shoulder. </p><p>“John, you haven’t eaten since lunch,” he said, the mattress dipping under his weight. John hummed, the pillow swallowing half of the sound. Sherlock’s hand stroked the length of his bicep; the touch felt cool against his skin. John hugged the pillow tighter around his head. “John. Wake up. You need to eat.”</p><p>“I’m tired,” John whined, but what came out resembled a suffocating bear. Sherlock rested his cheek against his bicep now, curls tickling his bared clavicle. John smiled to himself. He was lying on his side, absolutely lazy to move a muscle. His London Boy, however, was diligent and insistent. </p><p>A kiss on his arm. “I brought your food up. It’s warm,” Sherlock said, nuzzling closer. His long fingers traced his vertebrae, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. His toes curled, but that still wasn’t enough to make him get up. “Do you want to eat cold food? I don’t think so.”</p><p>“I don’t care,” John said, anticipating Sherlock’s next move. Tickling. Ha, too bad John’s not ticklish on his stomach! Sherlock’s attempt bore no results, and he began to get frustrated. </p><p>“What? You’re not ticklish?” he said, scandalized and offended at John’s lack of bodily response. “How? Why? That’s unfair!”</p><p>John compromised by letting the pillow fall back and unfold, stretching out once more under Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze. He put on a fake pout, arms crossed in defiance. “What can I say? I was gifted to outlast modern torture methods.”</p><p>He bent his knee and bumped Sherlock’s side, his gaze unrelenting but soft. And John saw that smile tug at his lips! Ha. Then it changed into a more serious expression. “But I meant it, John. Your food’s getting cold. Get up.”</p><p>“I’m lazy,” John complained to no one in particular, closing his eyes. He still felt a bit sleepy, but also more awake than five minutes ago. “You’ll have to drag me out.”</p><p>Sherlock took that as a challenge. But -- he played dirty. A smirk curled his lips, and he swiftly wrapped his arms around John’s bent knee, tugging him off the bed. John’s fight or flight response kicked in, and a playful brawl broke out between them. They ended up on the floor laughing, John straddling Sherlock’s hips and pinning him down by the wrists. </p><p>“Satisfied?” John asked, smiling at Sherlock. In the shadow John’s silhouette threw at him his eyes were marine blue and seaweed green. </p><p>“Very,” Sherlock grinned, tipping up his chin and John leaned in for a sweet kiss. A hand sneaked in his hair, palming the back of his skull, eliciting a purr from him. “I did get you out of bed.”</p><p>“That, you did. How was training?”</p><p>“Good. I don’t feel knackered. Maybe tomorrow, we’ll see how effective my stretching has been.”</p><p>John sat back on the balls of his feet, not wanting to squash Sherlock’s stomach with his weight. He craned his neck to look at the food Sherlock had brought up. Oooh -- Angelo’s lasagna!</p><p>“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” he asked, feeling only a little left out of the afternoon’s events. He had nothing to complain about -- the food waited for him to devour it. He got up and sat in his chair, digging straight into the delicious lasagna. </p><p>“I knew you were tired,” Sherlock said, sitting up but staying on the floor next to John’s chair, “so I wasn’t surprised when we came back and Irene said you fell asleep. However, I underestimated how much exactly you were or still are tired. I didn’t want to wake you up. You were….”</p><p>John’s fork froze midway to his hungry mouth as Sherlock’s sentence trailed off. “Hm? I was what? Snoring?”</p><p>Sherlock scratched his nose to mask his smile. “No. At least not when I came in. But…. You look rather adorable and snuggly when you sleep.”</p><p>“I thought you’d say I look sexy without a shirt on, but I’ll take adorable,” John said, smug as hell when Sherlock ducked his head, flustered. He nudged him with his foot, giggling. “Relax. I’m just teasing. You were adorable too when I left you sleep on the couch the other day.”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>“Yeah, cut the sass you’re thinking. Want a bite?” </p><p>Sherlock declined. “It’s your food. I stuffed myself three hours ago.”</p><p>“Cool. What do you want to do? My brain is made of cotton right now, I can’t do experiments for shit. I’d go back to sleep, to be honest.”</p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock said, biting his bottom lip. He fixed his gaze on the ground. “Well, I should let you… be, then?”</p><p>John set aside his empty plate, patting his sated belly. He felt even better after having eaten. Good thing Sherlock wrestled him out, in the end. Hm. He spent half the day without him, he could use a bit of ‘boyfriends’ time. </p><p>He nudged Sherlock again. “Or… we could cuddle on my bed, make out, and nap together?”</p><p>Sherlock’s head shot up, eyes twinkling as he dragged John towards the bed. “God yes!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Johnlock is full force &lt;3<br/>also yeah, slight mentions of johnaconda because why not!<br/>also: crystals! more on them and how they function on April 5! we'll see some old friends of Irene's :3<br/>I hope you peeps are good~</p><p>Updated: 30.3. 2021<br/>Words: 6725<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you alla a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care and don't scoop hot coffee with your hands,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. Irene Had a Little Lamp IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is espionage</p>
<p>episode 9, chapter 4</p>
<p>DOUBLE UPDATE, FUCKOS</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>fuckos/lovelies (affectionately), I woke up today and chose violence.<br/>have a double update!</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene woke up at eight o’clock. For her standards, it was exceptionally early in the day. Sherlock kept dozing off in his bed, an arm thrown over his face to block out the intrusive daylight. She knew he stayed in John’s room until midnight, and that’s as much as she wanted to know. Keeping her mind blank in this department was of the utmost importance, fuck that she made up innuendos whenever she got the chance. The duality of a woman was hidden in her ability to switch up her game as it suits her.</p>
<p>She sneaked out into the gift shop while Sherlock wasn’t awake to bust her. The gift shop yawned with emptiness -- Kate was late. Yesterday, while Sherlock buzzed around his boyfriend like the sap that he is, she examined the shiny piece of <em>whatever</em> that she took a hold of in the forest. Like she and John had agreed, neither of them uttered a word about the crystals. What John had no clue of, though, and Irene neither at first, was that she grabbed a fragment of a crystal back when she was tying her shoes. The shard had its two sides in both of the colours they have seen in the forest. So. So…. Who would she be to resist the temptation of tinkering with the forces of magical nature? Her brother was a future Consulting Detective and a scientist, she had to get a go at her own experiment eventually. </p>
<p>Which is what she did. Irene sneaked into the kitchen, had a quick breakfast accompanied by Mrs Hudson solving a crossword, and then she excused herself under the pretense of going for a walk to the forest after she asked the upkeeper how Angelo’s doing (lovely, thank you for asking). However, Irene changed her course to the pocket universe under the Mystery Shack. She ought to pay a visit to Jake and the puppets. </p>
<p>As surreptitiously as a girl might, Irene tumbled over to the gaping hole leading under the porch and slithered in in all her grace. She wiggled forward using her elbows and knees, same as when she took on an obstacle course during a scout camping trip several years ago. She found the entrance to Jake’s hideout quickly, and hopped in with practised ease. </p>
<p>“Sup!” she hollered as the tips of her toes landed on the firm ground underneath. The grunt of Hulk, Pocahontas, and an excited shout from Will greeted her. There was no sign of Jake, though. “Where’s our racoon?”</p>
<p>“Out scavenging,” Will said, standing up from where he sat on a blanket. Irene’s copy of Good Omens lay next to him, pristine as ever. They took good care of it, luckily. “He left a couple minutes ago, you missed him by chance.”</p>
<p>“Ah, nevermind. Thought I’d drop by for a bit, it’s been a while. How are you guys doing?”</p>
<p>“We’re alright,” Will said, his voice indicating a hint of mirth. Irene knelt down as he walked closer, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. Pocahonthas was busying herself folding paper planes out of the scraps that were scattered on the ground. “Poki is becoming a star athlete, and Hulk got into the lore of the book you brought us.”</p>
<p>“So you’re not bored?”</p>
<p>“Nah. Anything’s better than staying in the same room with Nic. Crazy dude, that man.”</p>
<p>Irene shivered, thinking back to their most recent encounter. “Bloody hell, tell me about it. We met him again two days ago.”</p>
<p>“What?” Will said, his woollen body going stiff. </p>
<p>“Exactly! He reincarnated into this plastic figurine he got somewhere. Apparently the curse makes him so spiteful he won’t stop until he gets us.”</p>
<p>“Huh, yeah that’s probably it. Still creepy, though. Sheesh. Well, it seems like he didn’t get you.”</p>
<p>“Nope. A bunch of beavers threw the Uno reverse card and dragged him into the forest.”</p>
<p>“Beavers?”</p>
<p>“Don’t ask,” Irene shook her head, wishing there was a way for her to forget the encounter ever happened, make it only a mere deja vu whenever she saw a picture of the actor himself, nothing else. “And…. How’s Jake doing?”</p>
<p>“Our racoon friend is doing great!” Will exclaimed giddily, pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the proximity of the book. “Has a bit of a difficulty reading a few letters and distinguishing them, but otherwise? He’s a fast learner.”</p>
<p>Irene’s lips curled up in a warm smile, trying to imagine Jake studying the alphabet. Which, okay, is a surreal idea on its own, but also hella adorable. Did Jake sit like a cat, paws tucked under his tiny furry chest? Did his ears stand upright or flopped downwards? So many questions, and yet no answers. </p>
<p>“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, waking up from her reverie about her scholastic racoon friend. She ran her hands up and down her thighs. Her skin tanned easily, a genetic trait she inherited after her dad. Her time spent in Oregon sped the process up, and her body parts showed tan lines where her t-shirts usually covered her skin. “Listen, I know it’s taking me ages, but… I really hope to buy you some more blankets or pillows soon.”</p>
<p>Will waved a hand in a ‘don’t worry about it’ motion. “Naw, chill. Besides, you said we should write you a list. Jake wants to write it himself, he won’t let me or Hulk or Poki do it. So you still have some time. It’s not like us dolls seek out comfort. For us, it’ll be more for the aesthetic.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Irene’s forehead creased as she raised a speculative eyebrow.</p>
<p>“Well,” Will considered, head tipping to the side as he drew the word out. “I do miss the TV. It’s been a while since I watched a show or a movie myself and didn’t rely on my <em>real</em> persona’s recollections of them.”</p>
<p>“I doubt I’d be able to sneak in a plasma TV along with tons of cables. Sorry buddy.”</p>
<p>“No worries, I’ll make do.”</p>
<p>“Hey, what’s that?” Irene pointed at a pile of junk in a faraway corner. It consisted of metal scraps, copper wires, aluminium foil, strings, and a torch. “A torch?”</p>
<p>“You mean flashlight?” Will corrected, walking behind her to take a better look at the pile. </p>
<p>“No, it’s called a torch, you inept American puppet,” Irene insisted rather vehemently. “Where’d you get it?”</p>
<p>“Jake rummaged through a dumpster the other day. He scavenges a lot some days. And… he brought this.”</p>
<p>Irene sorted through the junk. The torch was functional, switching on and off without a hitch. Having that in mind, she drew out the crystal shard and brought it to the lense. She aimed it at a small metal scrap, and turned the light on. She held the shard with its turquoise side facing the metal, and as such, the lightbeam minimized the scarp even further. Irene flipped the sides and increased its size in turn. </p>
<p>“Whoa! That’s crazy, where did you get that?” Will inquired, amazed by the trick that Irene just did. She explained to him how she and John wandered into the woods, leaving out the prior events when she got angsty about her height. “It seems like a gadget the Men in Black would use.”</p>
<p>“Maybe,” Irene nodded, crouching to retrieve a reasonably long piece of copper wire. One ping of a figurative lightbulb going off above her head later, she constructed the perfect device. Using the wire that she bent to her liking, she attached the shard so that it stayed fixed in front of the torch lense. It was possible to switch the sides, according to which she could use either the magenta or turquoise variant. Irene grinned to herself. “I’m the next Tony Stark.”</p>
<p>“Pretty cool. This town’s crazy,” Will said, chuckling. He went over to their blanket and picked up Good Omens. </p>
<p>“True, but I got a handy invention out of it. I think I better go. I don’t know who may see me crawl from under the porch like some cryptid from Steven King, so I shouldn’t risk it.”</p>
<p>“Alright. It’s been nice seeing you! I’ll tell Jake you were here.”</p>
<p>Irene bid the dolls a goodbye and scrambled out of the pocket universe. She listened intently for a few minutes before deciding that no one stood above her on the wooden parquets. She slithered out, stood up, and dusted off her shorts and t-shirt. All was well. Until Kate’s voice reached her ears. </p>
<p>“Did I just see you crawl out from under the porch like an Eldritch creature?” she said, leaning on the railing and squinting at Irene, the sun partially blinding her vision. </p>
<p>Irene’s heart pumped blood up her neck, and she stuttered for an answer, but no coherent sentence formed on her tongue. “Uhm… I…”</p>
<p>“What were you doing there? Banishing another racoon?”</p>
<p>“No.” Irene shifted her weight on her right leg, putting a hand on her hip. What was she supposed to say? Her left hand played with the torch, which got Kate’s attention. </p>
<p>“What’s that? A lightsaber? Can I see it?” she asked, suddenly excited and she hopped over the railing. Irene panicked. If Kate turned the light on, it would be obvious what the torch and shard did. Maybe she could let her on this little secret? Besides, Kate showed her her secret spot on the rooftop. They’re both shorter than the guys. They ought to have each other’s backs in this inequality. </p>
<p>“I’ll show you,” Irene said. “But we need to go somewhere private.”</p>
<p>By going private she meant their spot on the rooftop. The sun warmed the place up, but they hid in the shade of the umbrella Kate brought up the other day. Irene walked her through the process, and Kate deduced that a part of why Irene had John drive her to the crystals was due to the height argument. Then Irene told Kate how she found this shard, but her visit to the pocket universe went unmentioned, as well as resurfacing from under the porch. </p>
<p>“Did you think of enlarging yourself permanently?” Kate asked, weighing the torch in her grip. </p>
<p>“I did, but John may have a point,” she shrugged. “We don’t know what it does with the human body, do we?”</p>
<p>Kate snorted. “It makes it bigger for sure. But hey -- why shit your pants? If it was harmful, I bet you’d know the second you ran through that magenta beam. If your organs tore or somethin’ you’d scream like a banshee.”</p>
<p>“Hm. You’re right. This probably would have an immediate effect.”</p>
<p>“Exactly. Plus, this is <em>magic</em>. It ain’t Avada Kedavra or Crucio, so why worry? How about we try it on ourselves one more time?” </p>
<p>Irene grinned, and gave Kate the privilege to get bigger first. She shone the magenta beam at her for a few seconds, then Kate repeated the gesture on her. It felt different and yet the same. They looked at each other, examining the changes that might have not happened before when Irene ran a mini marathon the day prior. Nope, no tails nor any ruptured organs. They were in perfect shape and health.</p>
<p>“Finally, we’re the same height!” Irene smiled, her sky blue eyes meeting Kate’s copper and hazel gaze. The corners of Kate’s eyes crinkled, and she pouted her mouth in an ‘<em>Are you sure, fam?</em>’ notion, her head tilting to the side. “What?”</p>
<p>“I think I’m still a bit taller than you,” Kate giggled. </p>
<p>Irene gaped at her. “Why would you be? To me we’re on the same level! Come on, back up to the wall, we’re measuring this.” As it turned out, after marking their respective heights with a sharpie, Kate was indeed a centimeter taller than Irene. “That’s impossible!”</p>
<p>Kate couldn’t contain her laughter any longer, bursting into an uncontrollable fit. But Irene had a different opinion. She snatched the torch from Kate and aimed the magenta beam on herself, making herself taller than her friend. Then, for good measure, she switched to turquoise and made Kate smaller, who gasped and offendedly stared up at Irene. </p>
<p>“Who’s short now?” Irene teased, only to have the torch taken away from her as Kate reversed their heights in similar pettiness. “Hey! I have the right to be taller!” </p>
<p>What ensued was a fight for the torch, the two girls each retaining control over it for a few seconds, either enlarging or minimizing the other one, with the addition of a lot of rolling around on the roof. They almost knocked the umbrella off, and then Kate shoved Irene a bit too close to the edge, barely managing to catch her. In the rush of adrenaline and not wanting to become a human pancake on the lawn, Irene knocked the torch out of Kate’s grasp, just as the shard turned to turquoise, the light switched on. </p>
<p>The torch shone a beam at the two, immediately taking effect to make them smaller and smaller and smaller. The girls shrieked in panic when the torch started rolling off the roof, and they hurried towards it, becoming even tinier as their legs were unable to carry them fast enough. At last, the torch turned off as it hiccuped on a bump, and then it fell over the edge and down into a bush by the stairs leading to the porch. </p>
<p>Irene and Kate stared at the green succulent in horror, awe-struck, and unable to process what had just happened. They looked at each other, both shorter than a regular sized pinky finger. Kate tugged at her braids in distress. </p>
<p>“Oh no -- oh no! What do we do? What if the crystal broke?” she said, sinking to her knees. Irene, white as a sheet, carefully peeked over the edge of the roof. They heard no sound of breaking glass, but maybe they were too tiny to register that. Oi fuck. </p>
<p>“Kate, calm down,” she put a hand on her shoulder, but it had no effect. She shook her, repeating the sentence, but Kate got lost deeper in misery and stress until Irene snapped. “Kate! Wake up, woman!” -- a slap -- “Calm the fuck down!” -- another slap -- “We’re getting out of this, understand?”</p>
<p>Kate’s eyes widened, her neck craning away from Irene, but she nodded. “But how?”</p>
<p>Irene bit her upper lip, peeking over the ledge again. She doubted they had a chance of surviving a jump in the bush. Fuck. “I don’t know. Maybe if we jumped onto something soft, but…”</p>
<p>“Look! That’s Greg!” Kate pointed below them at the greying head of the Mystery Shack owner. He was smoking a cigarette, the nicotine cloud rising up distastefully when he exhaled. He looked ragged and exhausted, leaning on the railing like that, eyes fixed on an undetermined point in the distance. “Should we…?”</p>
<p>“Don’t you think he’ll feel us land in his hair?”</p>
<p>“He literally gives zero fucks when he’s holding a cig,” Kate pointed out.</p>
<p>Irene looked at Greg, then at Kate. The only response Greg was capable of while smoking was a grunt. Fair enough. “Alright. Hold my hand. On three. One…”</p>
<p>“Two…”</p>
<p>“Three!” they yelled in unison, and jumped off. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Vivien parked their car at the end of the paved road that led to the Mystery Shack, stomping on the breaks right before the asphalt changed into dirt. Shabby entrance, shady business, and yet people kept coming for more. Which was both ridiculous and admirable. Greg Lestrade belonged to the category of men who managed to surprise even the best of entrepreneurs when it came to figuring out his tricks to sell a bullshit story to the audience. </p>
<p>In a way, he and Mary were similar. She’s never talked to him personally, only hearing stories from John when they hung out together years ago as kids and before he left for university and everything went to <em>shit</em>, but she remembered some trivia. That may become useful later. But leaving that aside, he did have the charisma needed in this business to stay afloat on the rough waters that were tourism, especially the seasonal kind. </p>
<p>Funny how he used the supernatural as his front to catch the attention of the feeble minds passing Reichenbach Falls. Mary knew what tours he gave, and what abominations he glued together from his dumpster diving and antique sales scavenges he then showed off to his customers in the gift shop. He had no idea what kind of <em>supernatural</em> truly resided in the town. But then if he did, he may be crazy enough to implement it in his shabby Shack. Strange how that house still stood upright and didn’t tumble to the side, its wooden structure withering away after years of inept upkeep. No wonder it needed constant touch-ups. But why didn’t he invest in restoring it? Hm. Perhaps to keep it rustic and attract bigger crowds? Possible. Likely. Smart.</p>
<p>Mary glanced at the driver -- Vivien Morgana Norbury, a fellow ‘novice’ -- and suppressed the urge to mentally slap Moran. He dared to laugh in her face when they went over this task. <em>Novices</em>. Such an offensive term, and yet she couldn’t do shit about it.</p>
<p>“Will you go and talk to him?” Mary asked, her tone neutral. She didn’t like getting to know others in the Club. Not as a necessity by any means. She had no need for superficial camaraderie that’d turn their back on her whenever the opportunity dictated it. Right now, though, she had to feign interest and be amicable enough to work out what they were dealing with. Bonus if she was the one who fulfilled the task and moved ranks. </p>
<p>Vivien’s knuckles went white as she gripped the steering wheel. Mary chose to lift an eyebrow over rolling her eyeballs. Nervousness, she was familiar with. But at this stage her crewmate should be good enough to put themselves on ease during an active case. </p>
<p>“Sure,” Vivien said, casting Mary a shy smile. She was a fan, which was, to be honest, embarrassing. She was in her late thirties, and okay, it’s touching that she charmed even the older audiences, but Vivien could be less obvious about the whole ordeal. Mary graciously turned a blind eye to it. “So…. Let me recapitulate. I say I’d like to talk business, and dish out the offer from the Boss. Uh, I catalogue his reaction, and try to wage in a number of other offers.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Mary exhaled, making it a point to stare ahead at the Shack. Maybe she’ll get a glance of John somewhere around. Or Adler, damn that greedy woman. At least they won’t be able to recognise her. She was wearing a green shawl and a big pair of round shades that covered her face just right to make her disguise perfect. She even wore jeans and a green blouse. She hated the colour, but hey. Needs must. “Yes, and I’ll wait here. You have your microphone on you, so I will be able to hear what he says. There’s no mistakes to be made here, alright? This task isn’t important yet. The Club doesn’t need to buy out the lot this instant, as we were told, we just need to see where Lestrade stands.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Vivien said, turning the radio off. She checked her makeup in the rear view mirror and touched up her hair. “Until now, he ran like the devil was at his heels whenever one of ours introduced themselves.”</p>
<p>“I’d be bothered too. It makes us look like Jehova’s witnesses.”</p>
<p>“Ha, good comparison. Okay, I’m going. He’s smoking on the porch.”</p>
<p>Mary hummed, sagging in the passenger’s seat as Vivien walked up to Greg Lestrade. She turned on her earpiece to catch the conversation between them. </p>
<p>“<em>Gregory Lestrade?</em>” she heard Vivien say in a friendly manner. Good thing she passed for a mother of three, despite owning a bunch of cats and tortoises. </p>
<p>“<em>Can I help you?</em>” he said, his tone between inquiring and guarded. </p>
<p>“<em>In fact, yes, I was curious how long the Shack’s been opened?</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Fifteen years,</em>” Greg replied, and from where she sat Mary saw him flick the cigarette into the bushes under the railing on which he propped his elbows. </p>
<p>“<em>And…. Have you perhaps considered upgrading the building?</em>” Vivien asked further, still amiable, but not overly enthusiastic in her queries. </p>
<p>Greg stared at her, and Mary was sure a number of thoughts passed his mind that weren’t the friendliest. “<em>Why should you care? Oh, right. The Club.</em>”</p>
<p>Busted.</p>
<p>“<em>We just want to talk and make you an offer. Well, our Boss does, but we’re passing on the message.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Thanks, but I’ve had enough. First you sent me spam by post -- and who does that in the twenty-first century? Then you keep trailing me across town like cult members, which I do think you are at this point, mind you. And then you wanted me to join your sorry ass, white privileged stupid excuse of a club, but fuck no. I won’t join.</em>”</p>
<p>Vivien hurried to explain the contrary. “<em>Actually, it’s not about joining the Club itself,</em>” she said, and Greg threw the cigarette butt into the bushes. “<em>We were curious whether you’d sell the property to the Club. You wouldn’t be evicted -- the Boss just likes to keep the town in check in case something happens to the owners.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Are you out of your mind? He’d be the owner if I sold it. And what? Sell the property? I inherited it twenty years ago, half-raised my nephew here, and started a business. Do you honestly think I’d throw away two decades worth of memories?</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh I’m sure you’d find a compromise.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>No. Never. I won’t even let you sniff the deed while you’re here. Tell your Boss to shove it or I’ll do it for him.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Mr Lestrade, we just want to talk it over --</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>You’ve got a colleague with you?</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes, she can come out and --</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>No, here’s the deal, lady. Imma go buy my family lunch, and you can talk it over with that colleague of yours. Adieu, and don’t come back. I want nothing to do with your lot.</em>”</p>
<p>He flicked a hand through his hair as he passed her, rolling up his sleeves while he walked to his car. His rage within was evident. Vivien attempted to talk to him, but Greg cussed her out in French and sped off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. </p>
<p>Surprise was not an emotion Mary felt much. She anticipated this. Seriously, the Club should know better by now. But she couldn’t help feeling sorry for Greg; he was in for lots of challenges if he didn’t find common sense and yielded while he had the chance to do so. </p>
<p>The Club and her Boss were… persuasive. She tied herself to the Club to get the love of her life back, but that proved to be more difficult than she’d have thought. Why worry? She <em>will</em> get John. Surely by the end of this summer. She would’ve done so last year (which would have saved her and the Club the hassle), but he hadn’t come until the last two weeks of August. Apparently he’s been on a trip to England, but by the time he visited Reichenbach Falls, she had gone on a tour already. This summer, though -- she would get what she wants. What she needs. Because John was benign to her life, ever since they became friends as teens during one of his shorter stays here. And she won’t let a woman like Adler lay her hands on her future boyfriend. (And eventually husband, she had a whole notebook and scrapbook dedicated to their wedding.) Unfortunately, her plans took an unexpected turn of events when Adler smashed the pearl necklace. She planned on drilling it into John that he did indeed love her (who wouldn’t?), as opposed to what he may believe at the moment under Adler’s influence. That won’t last long. She’ll make sure of it. She’ll break John out of her snake-like grasp and make him hers, like he always was, and forever will be. They’ll be happy together.</p>
<p>Vivien got in the car and started the engine, tearing her from her thoughts of revenge. “He’s stubborn,” she said, blowing her fringe out of her line of sight where it fell over her forehead. “He will put up a fight.”</p>
<p>That much was apparent. Mary’s throat made a noncommittal noise to agree, and she took out her earpiece. How could they make Greg consider the offer? Mind tricks would be easy, but again, the pearl necklace was gone… and he wasn’t a feeble mind to be manipulated unlike the crowds she entertains daily. He mentioned a deed…. A fraud where they let him sign the Shack over to the Club could work. </p>
<p>“Vivien, follow him,” Mary told her as they turned around on the driveway. “Let’s see where he goes. I have a plan in mind.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Irene and Kate experienced one hell of a ride ever since they jumped off the Mystery Shack’s roof. They landed safely in Greg’s hair -- the shampoo and conditioner he used left it silky smooth, it was quite nice and smelled sweet --but barely in time to register that a woman came to talk to him. Both girls sat through the strange exchange and Greg’s aggravation with some weird club that bugged him, until he ran a hand through his hair, positively blasting Irene and Kate in the woman’s direction akin to a medieval catapult, except less deadly. </p>
<p>As such, they ended up holding onto the woman’s fringe, light as feathers so that they went unnoticed. Until later when she blew the hair out of her eyes and Irene and Kate were sent flying again, landing on top of her head. In her car. With <em>Mary Morstan</em>. What the fuck? Shocked as they were, Kate and Irene both put a hand on the other’s mouth to prevent them from breathing loudly or cursing in surprise. Mary slowly became more and more confusing and dangerous in Irene’s opinion. </p>
<p>Now they rode mostly in silence, neither of the miniature girls knowing what to do. The further they got from the Shack and the torch, the less hope they retained for finding a solution for their problem. </p>
<p>“What do we do?” Kate whispered to Irene, the two climbing from the older woman’s hair onto the seat. Mary didn’t notice them, and the women drove without exchanging words. They followed Greg, albeit from distance. </p>
<p>“No clue,” Irene replied honestly. It’s not like you turn into a miniature human every day. Seeing Mary here made it all the more concerning. She was a member of the club that bothered Greg, and he even mentioned a letter. Could it be the very same that he tore up without even reading it? “Mary has a ‘plan’ -- let’s try to get on her scarf. It should hide us well enough.”</p>
<p>“Okay. Do we jump across?”</p>
<p>Irene considered the distance between the seats, the perspective reminding her of action movies where the hero had to jump over canyons in order to escape his captors. Here they wouldn’t die per se if they were to fall, but it would sure hurt like a bitch. And it’d probably betray their position, which Irene had no desire to risk, seeing as she and Mary were on the less-than-friendly list of acquaintances. </p>
<p>Mary’s scarf sprawled over the back of her seat, flouncing from side to side as the car bumped on the road into town. The tips of her fingers danced furiously over her phone’s keyboard as she tapped out a message to an unknown number. Ugh, Irene hated that clicking sound. Why can’t people turn it off? </p>
<p>“Take my hand,” Irene said, and Kate obliged. They backed up a couple tiny steps, and then made a run for it before either woman in the front noticed them. They huffed as they pushed off of their tiptoes, their free hands splayed out to catch onto the fabric. </p>
<p>Kate managed to get a firm grip on it, while Irene slid down. Weren’t it for Kate holding her, she would have fallen on the dirty floor below. She mustered up enough strength to regain balance and the two crawled up to the back of Mary’s seat. Carefully walking around, they perched themselves on her right shoulder so that Mary’s companion didn’t see them if she turned to look at her. </p>
<p>The car stopped. Kate and Irene pressed closer together, observing their giant surroundings. Greg’s car was parked across the street in front of a coffee shop. Mary unbuckled, throwing the girls off-balance. They burrowed further into the shawl. </p>
<p>“Stay here and monitor him,” Mary said, opening her doors and stepping out onto the pavement. “I need to pick something up real quick. If he leaves, trail him and text me the address.”</p>
<p>Mary walked into a store a little off the coffee shop, busted in, leaving the doorbell ring as she confidently walked towards the cashier. They were in a shop that sold office supplies. She and the cashier exchanged a blank few words as he handed her a clipboard with a bunch of papers secured by the metal buckle atop the A4 format. Mary left just as quickly as she came in, not even thanking the dude, but he seemed nonplussed by the exchange. </p>
<p>Outside on the street, Mary crossed the road and took a pen out from her purse. Greg’s car stayed where he parked it, not having left the shop yet. Mary stood guard in front of it, asking passersby if they’d sign her petition to save local beavers. A few passed, shaking their heads as they hurried elsewhere, but a couple stopped by and happily obliged her. </p>
<p>“Sir!” Mary called out when Greg appeared, carrying a paper bag full of sweet donuts he’d purchased and six cups of coffee in a cartoon tray. </p>
<p>Irene peeked out from where she and Kate hid in the crease of Mary’s scarf to see Greg whip his head around, significantly calmer. Seeing an unknown, cheerful woman, however, put him on guard again. The cold look of his ice was icier than the biggest iceberg on Earth. Irene never saw this side of Greg, and she sure as all bloody hell never wanted to have it aimed at her. </p>
<p>Mary walked over to Greg, who sighed, but let her speak her litany. “Can I talk to you about beavers?”</p>
<p>“Beavers.” Greg sounded done, barely suppressing his incredulity. His gaze drifted off as he blinked to regain the last bits of his composure, nodding to let Mary go on. </p>
<p>“Yes, beavers!” Mary said excitedly in a high-pitched voice different from her casual tone. She knew how to put on a show, and Greg didn’t seem to have recognised her, either. Did he know how crazy John’s ex was? Mary pressed on, clutching the clipboard to her chest. “They are endangered species in many states across the world, and we wouldn’t like to see them diminish right under our noses. Would you be interested in signing a petition to prevent local forests from being sold to investors who would inevitably cut the trees, driving the wildlife to extinction?”</p>
<p>Greg stared at Mary, and for a hot second Irene thought he’d seen her, but then he scrunched up his nose, looking up in the sky as if to find the infamous diamond there that Rihana sang about. His weathered face smoothed out, and content replaced disbelief and reluctance. He shrugged, and with a small smile curving the corners of his lips he said, “Sure. Where do I sign?”</p>
<p>Mary pointed at a blank line at the bottom of the page filled with nonsense, keeping up her friendly attitude. Kate barely restrained Irene who felt the need to jump out and prevent Greg from laying a hand on the paper. This wasn’t good. What will happen now? He can’t trust her!</p>
<p>“Done,” Greg said, jotting a last dot on the paper. Kate and Irene waited, horror-struck, not knowing what this meant for the future of Greg or the Shack. “Now if you excuse me, I’ve got to go home. I’ve got four kids waiting for me and they’re all sugar junkies. Ta.”</p>
<p>“Thank you very much, sir!” Mary said, no doubt with a shit-eating grin on her face as she accomplished whatever devilish plan she had. Her satisfaction was short-lived, however. Irene heard her stutter, and she ran after Greg, who deposited his purchase in the back seat of his car. “Sir, you can’t be serious!”</p>
<p>“Oh, but I <em>am</em>,” Greg said. Irene heard the delightful tone of his voice bordering on a savage chuckle. She and Kate exchanged a curious glance. The sound of doors shutting closed reached them, Greg’s voice becoming higher and then distant as he circled his car. “You think I wouldn’t recognise you?”</p>
<p>Mary’s posture stiffened. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I saw you in the passenger seat of your lovely car over there.” He must’ve pointed at the car with Mary’s companion across the street. Her shoulders relaxed a trifle. “Not the best of spies, eh? Amateurs, I’ve met better scammers than your club buddies.”</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t underestimate the Club,” Mary said, a hint of danger in her words. Her demeanor changed as she undoubtedly glared holes into Greg and his mock-cheerful laugh. “You’ve no idea what you’re standing up against!” </p>
<p>“I know very well what I’m facing, and it’s a bunch of stupid, egoistic morons. Even religious missionaries would be less of a pain in the ass than you dickbags. Tell that <em>tas de merde</em> of a boss that you have that the Shack is not for sale. Ever. I don’t know who you are, lady, but get that through his thick skull, will ya? <em>Adieu</em>. Don’t bother next time. I won’t be nice.”</p>
<p>And with that, he drove off, leaving Mary standing dumbfounded on the curb before she cussed off the next person walking by as she hurried to the car in which she and her friend arrived there. She was <em>fuming</em>.</p>
<p>“Take me home,” she ordered her companion, who straightened herself after being barked at like that. Irene disliked her more and more with every passionate second she spent near her. Kate was of the same sentiment. They had to figure out a way to get back before Greg, John, or Sherlock noticed their prolonged absence. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Greg’s heart pounded in his chest, as though beginning to be set free and escape the stress it was under. He told himself to focus on the road and not crash while he used his right hand to pat the passenger’s seat for his phone. He cursed as it almost slipped out of his reach, trying to keep the vehicle steady. He slowed down while there were no other cars on the abandoned road, dialing a contact -- <em>A</em>. He needn’t have waited long, she picked up on the second ring. </p>
<p>“<em>Greg?</em>”</p>
<p>“Anthea,” he said, the lump in his throat almost suffocating him. That’s it, he had to stomp on the breaks. </p>
<p>“<em>What’s wrong? Did you try out the antiserum?Did the kids --</em>”</p>
<p>“No, it’s not about that,” he interrupted her, running a hand through his hair in a failed attempt to calm himself down. “Well, it’s about Irene and Kate.”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes?</em>”</p>
<p>Greg bent his finger on the manual to find a switch to roll down his window, letting some fresh air in. This was a nightmare, and exactly the reason why he didn’t want the kids to know about the town’s secrets. At first he thought he’d hallucinated the figure of miniature Irene on the woman’s shoulder, but nope, she peeped out again and he had to do his best acting to pretend he saw thin air and nothing else. Christ almighty. The woman was oblivious to her (and Kate, who had also peeped at him), but they were stuck with her. And Greg, despite the frantic race his mind underwent trying to come up with how the fuck they ended up there, <em>small</em>, did a spectacularly shit job. <em>How did they end up like that?</em> And then a possibility dawned on him. <em>The crystals</em>. Fuck. <em>Shit</em>. This was getting out of hand. They couldn’t get mixed up with the Club. Absolutely not. </p>
<p>“<em>Greg?</em>”</p>
<p>He blinked, groaning in frustration. “Irene and Kate ended up tiny as smurfs, minus the blue,” he told Anthea. “Listen, I’ve no idea <em>how</em>, but I think they may have found the crystals.”</p>
<p>“<em>The magenta and turquoise ones?</em>”</p>
<p>“Yep. Don’t ask me, I’m not tailing them everywhere. But the Club minions bothered me again, and I saw them perched on the woman’s shoulder. Well, a green scarf, but who the fuck cares.”</p>
<p>“<em>What? Did she know about them?</em>”</p>
<p>“Didn’t look like it,” he said, recalling the encounter. These dickheads had some audacity and diligence, he had to give them that. Annoying cunts. “Listen, I couldn’t intervene without giving them away. They have no idea I’ve seen them, I think. But I’ve no clue where they went off to. Anthea --”</p>
<p>“<em>Did the Club members have a car you noticed?</em>” she asked, tuning into her work persona. He knew it well, allowing himself to sigh in relief. </p>
<p>“Thank fuck, yes,” he said, scratching the top of his head. “From what I’ve seen, it had a custom Oregon plate. Maybe Crater Lake or some shit like that. The numbers are: zero, four, zero, two. Red Honda.”</p>
<p>“<em>I’ll check the cameras. What do we do then? I should have the car located in thirty minutes tops.</em>”</p>
<p>Greg blew out a puff of air. He desperately needed another cigarette, but he forgot his pack at the Shack. “I don’t know. The kids can’t know that <em>I</em> know. Saves the trouble to explain everything. At least not now when the Club is coming for my ass. They’re dicks, but I won’t have them tail John or the siblings if I can prevent it.”</p>
<p>“<em>When you work out the serum, you’ll have to come out and say the truth either way, Greg.</em>”</p>
<p>“I know. But I’d rather figure out the culprit first too, so I can break their legs and knock out their teeth through the back of their skull.”</p>
<p>“<em>You know I’ll help you</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and I’m thankful for that. I really am. But…. I made a promise to leave them out of it.”</p>
<p>“<em>That was fifteen years ago</em>,” Anthea pointed out, correctly so. “<em>Times change. No one could’ve predicted that the Club would arise and that CAM was going to be the leader.</em>”</p>
<p>He gave a hollow chuckle. “Yeah, Redbeard would despise it.”</p>
<p>“<em>You still refer to him by that nickname?</em>”</p>
<p>“You never know who’s listening to your private conversations, An.”</p>
<p>“<em>You should let go. I’m sorry, Greg, but it’s been fifteen years.</em>”</p>
<p>Greg swallowed. He supposed that she was right. Or would be, if it weren’t for his scheme to bring his husband back. She wasn’t aware that he’d devoted the lab under the Shack to it, though. He won’t hold it against her, her belief that his husband was beyond the point of saving. She’ll forever be a realist. </p>
<p>He cleared his throat. If he told her, she’d only scold him. She’d jump in to help him immediately, however, no matter how much she thought otherwise. Because she cared, and wouldn’t see him getting lost or hurt in the process if she could prevent it. He counted on this wild card of his, saving it for a later opportunity shall it arise in the future. He won’t involve her sooner; Anthea has her independent life she ought to indulge in.</p>
<p>“Look, I know. Let’s move on from this. When you find the car -- check where it dropped off a woman in a green scarf and awful big, round shades. Could you --”</p>
<p>“<em>I’ll take a walk by the house and see what I find. Text me a picture of Irene. Kate too. If anything, I’ll make sure they are on their way home. I may have a battery with the shard somewhere around. I could turn them back from a cover, I’m still good at it.</em>”</p>
<p>“That’d be amazing,” Greg said, slumping in his seat, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. “Just…. Make sure the Club doesn’t get a whiff of them having knowledge of the town’s lore.”</p>
<p>“<em>I’m on it. And Greg? Breathe.</em>”</p>
<p>She hung up, and Greg let himself exhale a lungful of air he wasn’t aware he was holding. Irene and Kate would be fine, but he sure as fuck had to hurry to make things right. For Redbeard, and for the kids alike. Even if it’s the last thing he does. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>words: 6788</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. Irene Had a Little Lamp V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Jake meets Kate</p>
<p>episode 9, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>special thanks to bee, dee, and my purple shampoo for keeping my dyed hair silvery-white<br/>I added some stuff to this chapter today as I revised it, it's 9am, apologies for any typos (feel free to piint them out)</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irene and Kate desperately held onto the slippery silk green scarf. Even worse, Mary tugged it off rather forcefully, tossing it aside as she banged the door of her room shut. Fuming and rage didn’t even begin to cover it. </p>
<p>“Arrogant asshole,” Mary growled, sitting down on her four-poster bed. Irene felt a prickle of her own anger rise when she heard it under the smooth material. “Does he honestly think he’ll be off the hook for long?! When Magnussen sets his mind to it, he’ll be done for sooner than he finishes a tour at the Shack.”</p>
<p>Kate gasped. “That <em>bitch</em>.”</p>
<p>“We have to wait until she leaves the room,” Irene said, getting a nod from Kate. It was barely after lunch, and already they’ve seen too much to their taste. But they’ve also uncovered a piece of creepy conspiracy. </p>
<p>The buzz of a ringtone quietened them. </p>
<p>“Hello?” Mary said in a bored voice. She groaned. “Moran. How do you think it went? Aha. Stop sassing me, I’m not the incompetent one. I tried to get him to sign a document. I have a lawyer friend who owes me a favour. Not that kind of favour, you pig. Idiot. How are you my overseer in this again? Shut up. Of course he didn’t sign it, he’s not that stupid. He’s a conman himself, in case you forgot. He reads even the fine print and all that has an asterisk next to it and in-between lines like a skilled lawyer himself.”</p>
<p>Irene dug her nails into her palm. Deep inside her soul, she believed in second chances. Bloody hell, even third chances! But what she Kate were currently the witnesses of -- that incinerated every last bit of hope she’d had for Mary. And who was Moran? What did it mean -- the Club? Was it a secret organization? It sure looked like it. </p>
<p>Mary continued talking to Moran. “We won’t scam him via paperwork. That’s too easy for our taste. Magnussen said it’s not pressing. I…. What <em>about </em>John? Stop calling him ‘<em>Golden Boy</em>’ -- you have no right for that. Oh, I’m sure he’s not as sentimental about the Shack, just look at the state of it.”</p>
<p>Kate fumed, and so did Irene, even though Kate needed further restrictions so as not to charge at Mary, no matter the size difference. The fierceness of that woman outweighed her and skyrocketed beyond human limits despite her tiny state of being. “<em>Kate</em>!” Irene hissed, taming the woman to a simmer. “We need to stay quiet!”</p>
<p>What did Mary, Moran, and Magnussen plan to do about the Shack? Demolish it? Greg won’t allow that!</p>
<p>“Don’t be stupid. Of course he won’t mind. I’d take him in, in case that wasn’t clear. He didn’t even spend that much time there, just a couple summer holidays. That’s nothing compared to how -- shut <em>up</em>. The only one who’s delusional is <em>you</em>. The Club gave me a pass, an opportunity, and you have no say in it. You also pleaded for a favour, so shut up, Moran. Have an awful day and fuck off, I’ll pick you up later.”</p>
<p>Mary hung up, even more riled up than she’d been prior to the phone call. She threw her phone in a pink case aside with an outraged growl and it hit the headboard of her bed. She splayed on the duvet, legs hanging off the side of the cushiony mattress. “As if Moran has a right to bitch about John or my plans. All I need is the perfect execution of it, and I’ll get John to fall in love with me!”</p>
<p>It was plain as a day. Mary had issues. Irene saw that before, but eavesdropping on a mysterious, eerie conversation hammered the last nail in the coffin. Kate, stunned as she was by the proclamation regarding John, gritted her teeth. She peeked out from under the silk scarf and then hauled Irene behind a desk nearby, hiding them in the shadows, as though they were bugs or mice sneaking about Cinderella’s house, trying to find food for sustenance and avoid the evil step-mother. </p>
<p>Just as the desk offered its sanctuary, Mary got up, pacing up and down her room. “If it weren’t for that damned Irene Adler!” she snarled, prying the doors of her wardrobe open. She started tearing pieces of clothing out, mostly dresses, fumbling through the racks until she found what she desired. That God-awful pink dress from the show Irene had the misfortune to witness. </p>
<p>Kate regarded Irene, curiosity hitching up her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “Damn, gurl.”</p>
<p>“I’ll explain later,” Irene whispered, glancing over the leg of Mary’s desk to see what the delusional woman was doing. Examining the dress. <em>Well, honey, the colour doesn’t suit you</em>, Irene thought sourly. </p>
<p>Mary went on with her monologue. “What does she even think? That she can snatch <em>my </em>John from <em>me</em>? I won’t have anyone stand between us any longer. I’ve waited <em>years</em> to be John’s girlfriend! She’s not even his type!”</p>
<p><em>Not this heteronormative shit again</em>, Irene groaned internally. Kate’s mouth was agape. Yep, fresh gossip. She glanced at her and they both shared a knowing look. Why did she think she’s going to seduce John? Alright, point given for the confrontation at the old mill, but fuck. Mary was going to be a nuisance. </p>
<p>Mary’s phone buzzed again, but she retrieved it from under her fluffy pillows in no hurry. “What? Yes, grandpa. I’ll be at the tent in ten minutes for the rehearsal. Yes. Love you too, bye.”</p>
<p>After another fit of making a mess of her entire wardrobe, Mary had finally left for the lower storey of her house. Or her grandpa’s? Kate and Irene waited for an undetermined amount of time that felt like ages, and only when they heard a distant sound of the front door shutting closed did they dare to step out. </p>
<p>Mary’s room was predominantly painted and covered in pink tones: blush, watermelon, salmon, taffy…. It was like living on a colour palette, but subtle enough for the colours to not crash violently together. There was a white carpet covering the floorboards, and similarly coloured drapes at the windows that had glitter patterns sewn into them. There was a singular giant wardrobe, doors yawning open and half-empty. The dresses created an image as though they were the wardrobe’s spilled guts. Irene gave herself a point for oddity of thought. There was little in terms of decoration. A bookshelf above the desk shelved a few books, but from what was visible, the desk got the jackpot. It had a giant mirror with lights around it for optimal light coverage, and it seemed that piles upon piles of makeup palettes littered the space, accompanying brushes, swatches, lipsticks, pencils, and more. </p>
<p>The four-poster bed was the main attraction. From their current position it looked <em>huge</em>. True to the spirit of Mary’s room, it housed all sorts of pink. Like a mother duck of all pinks. The duvet even had Disney print on it. That was actually cool, Irene liked that. There were pillows big and small pushed to the headboard -- a mountain in its own right. Embroidered blankets lay at the end of the bed where the curtains tied to the columns of the bed. All in all, excluding Mary’s evil monologues, the room would look normal. It was tidy before Mary ripped half of her clothing arsenal open, but alas. </p>
<p>“Hey, this is the fake deed she tried to get Greg to sign!” Kate said, pointing at a sheet of paper larger than them. It was propped on the leg of a chair so that the girls could see the print. Lawyer stuff was too boring to hold their attention, so they skipped to Greg’s scribble at the bottom of the page -- and died laughing. What Greg had so eloquently smirked at when Mary confronted him was a short message instead of his name: <em>Get fucked, idjits.</em></p>
<p>“Oh no,” Irene squealed, holding onto Kate. “He doesn’t waste a second insulting them.”</p>
<p>Kate hollered, reading over it in a parody of Greg’s voice. “Damn, do we love this conman. He’s the best. I’m glad he saw through it.”</p>
<p>“So am I. But how do we get out of here? I don’t fancy Mary busting us in her house tiny like ants. Man, do I wish to be Ant-Man right now.”</p>
<p>“Mary left the window open,” Kate said, nodding at the windowsill and drapes floating aimlessly in the faint summer breeze breaking in. “We can get up by climbing the clothes and then the drapes. She left enough mess for us to take advantage of.”</p>
<p>Irene followed the trail Kate pointed out with her forefinger. Yep, they’d manage. They got right to it unanimously, ready to get out of this hellhole and far, far away from Mary. Kate had it easier grasping the clothes, dragging herself up. Apparently she was also a former scout and took mountain climbing classes which now became useful. She helped Irene, offering a hand constantly to make sure they both kept up with the pace. Who knows how long Mary will be gone? </p>
<p>Halfway up, Irene needed a break. Her limp noodly arms were too weak for this. They’ll hurt like amotherfucker tomorrow. Suddenly, she froze. Kate asked her what was wrong, alarmed, but Irene’s gaze rested on a worn-out book, not unlike the mystery journal Sherlock had found on their first day here. Except this bore the number 2. <em>The second mystery journal. But how?</em></p>
<p>“Kate, the journal,” Irene pointed. “We have the third one! How did Mary get it? We have to take it with us.”</p>
<p>“Whoa, are you nuts? We have trouble climbing out now, what would we do with a journal hundred times heavier than us? If Mary had it until today and didn’t set the world on fire we can safely assume it’s not her priority.”</p>
<p>“But…”</p>
<p>“Irene, we need to get out first. We can devise a <em>Mission: Impossible</em> plan later to get it, but please -- let’s go home? I’m creeped out by this room.”</p>
<p>Irene pursed her lips but gave Kate a firm nod. She cast the mystery journal a longing look (all the more intriguing as she turned her back to it, its contents unknown) and followed Kate’s lead. What was written in it? Was it authored by the same person? The knowledge had to wait.</p>
<p>At last, they scrambled their tiny limbs onto the windowsill. A drainpipe by the window itself offered a safe slide down, more or less. “Ready to go?” Irene asked in an attempt to silence her upturning stomach. Heights didn’t make her queasy, but it wasn’t a comfortable sight to behold either. </p>
<p>“Let’s go together,” Kate said, intertwining her fingers with Irene’s. On the count of three, they jumped into the metal pipe, letting gravitation guide their sliding. It reminded Irene of waterslides, except there was less water and more friction. Thankfully, their clothes survived.</p>
<p>They dusted themselves off, looking around the green garden. It was neatly organised, the grass cut and trimmed to an even level, a flower bed resting in the far back near a white picket fence. Kate and Irene sneaked around the house, their backs pressed to the walls so as to ensure that no one would see them. As they rounded the next corner, however, they were forced to retreat into a neighbouring, uninviting bush with thorns as big as themselves. </p>
<p>A brunette woman in sports clothing passed them on the sidewalk, strolling by the house leisurely. She even stopped to tie her trainers, observing her surroundings closely. Probably a tourist or a hiker. She fixed her gaze on the bush where the two girls took rescue. Her brows knitted, but nothing betrayed their whereabouts. Eventually, she stood up, sneezed, and continued on her way to town. One of her airpods fell out and ended up near the bush. Irene made to alert her, but Kate held her back. Ah. Tiny anatomy.</p>
<p>“Jesus, John was right,” Irene sighed in relief, and a bit of shame gnawed at her conscience. “We shouldn’t have toyed with the crystals.”</p>
<p>“Dude, I hate when he’s right,” Kate shook her head, tying her long black hair in a bun. “It’s even worse that he’s going to be a doctor. Stupid smart guy.”</p>
<p>“I think you used a literary device there.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I think so. Oxymoron, is it called? Ha, it has moron in it.”</p>
<p>“You know what I’d hate even more? If we experienced a series of unfortunate events and got sick or died from some internal injuries.”</p>
<p>The girls squinted at each other, then laughed, almost hysterically. That, however, drew the attention of a very wild, special creature.</p>
<p>“Irene?”</p>
<p>“Jake?”</p>
<p>“It is you!” the racoon purred, his snout sniffing at them through the bush branches. She held her breath as his own mingled with the air they inhaled. He dumpster dived, ew. “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>Irene tried to assess the street they semi-overlooked. It looked empty, which is probably why Jake spoke in the first place.</p>
<p>“Wait, is this a talking racoon? For real?” Kate intervened, not as spooked or confused as Irene would have imagined her to be. She just stood behind Irene, frowning. </p>
<p>“Uhm…. On a scale of one to mental asylum, how much will you believe me?” Irene asked, huffing a nervous laugh, tapping her foot against the dry ground. Jake withdrew his snout and angled his head to look at them. </p>
<p>“Considering we’re about an inch tall, we have a ghoul Freddie Mercury for a friend, and Mary is a right bitch, I believe all that my fake elf eyes see.”</p>
<p>“Good! Jake, meet Kate. Kate, this is Jake. He snatched Greg’s permit weeks ago, and he’s the fluffiest boy to ever fluff.”</p>
<p>“Hi!” Jake greeted politely, baring his sharp teeth in an adaptation of a human smile. Aw. Adorably creepy. “How did you end up this tiny? Not gonna lie, you’re both cute like this, but it’s disconcerting seeing humans be the size of a pixie.”</p>
<p>The girls swooned at his ‘cute’ comment, but Irene made a poker face at the mention of pixies. <em>Never again</em>. “Jake, and what are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“Garbage hunting,” he replied immediately, rubbing a paw over his belly. “I scavenge a couple houses and sometimes share food with other forest animals if I stumble upon them. How did you end up here? This is pretty far from the Shack. Did you teleport?”</p>
<p>“No, we got tiny because of crystals,” Irene explained, and Jake aahed in acknowledgement. </p>
<p>“I know those! Animals usually avoid them. That whole area is masked to humans usually. You have to know where it is in order to be able to find it.”</p>
<p>“John and I read about it yesterday. I actually went to your pocket universe and I made a device using a shard to make myself taller.”</p>
<p>“But it made you smaller?”</p>
<p>“That’s a long story,” Kate said, smiling shyly. She clasped Irene on the shoulder. “So that’s where you came from? Jake lives under the house? Does Greg know?”</p>
<p>“Nope, Greg has no idea about the supernatural,” Irene said, shrugging. It’s better that way. If he knew that Mary had access once to a very haunted necklace, he’d either tell Mummy Irene drank too many slurpees, or just brush her off. Ignorance is bliss, and she, John, and Sherlock came to an agreement to protect the French Canadian conman. For his own good. The less he knew, the better. “It’s a secret.”</p>
<p>“Understood,” Kate nodded, crossing her arms. “So, how do we get back to the Shack? We can’t be gone for too long. Peeps will wonder where we skedaddled off to. We need to find the fleshlight and make ourselves big again. I’ll never bitch about being short. Ever.” Irene had to agree. After this nightmare? Her human height, the regular one, was a blessing in reality. </p>
<p>“I’ll take you!” Jake offered enthusiastically. He did a loop around his axis like an excited puppy. “Just jump on my back and hold on tight. I know how to get there quickly!”</p>
<p>“You sure?” Kate arched a perfect eyebrow. Jake nodded, wiggling his butt as he waited for them to wriggle out of the bush. “Okay. I’ve seen crazier shit during scout camps. But if you shake us off, I won’t call you a good boy.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you worry, Kate,” Jake said, staying still but pliant as they climbed to his back. Holding onto his grey coat was easier than Irene had thought initially. Jake waddled off to the grass field next to Mary’s house, his pace picking up the closer to the forest they got. “I’m <em>always</em> a good, fluffy boy.”</p>
<p>They left, no longer there to witness that same brunette woman retrace her steps and collect the airpod she had purposefully ‘lost’ in order to eavesdrop to assess the situation. Seems like Greg’s kids got involved rather a lot. And the racoon… well, there’s a first for everything, Anthea assumed. But it was hilarious how they thought <em>Greg</em> of all people knew nothing. His pretense of ignorance, as always, was brilliant. The kids were in for a shock when they came around. Greg had a lot of secrets.</p>
<p>A Mystery Man indeed.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Jake ran and ran, his stamina an endless pool of determination as he carried his two friends back to the Shack. It wasn’t hard to stay mounted, and Irene wrapped her arms around Kate’s waist -- she sat in the front. She had no idea how much time had passed since their unfortunate incident, but from the position of the sun in the sky, she supposed it couldn’t be <em>that </em>long. Hopefully the guys didn’t notice their absence yet. </p>
<p>Eventually they spotted the whacky roof of the Mystery Shack and its sign, the M tilted to the side and threatening to dislodge any second. They came to the clearing, Jake huffing for breath and on the lookout for potential enemies out in the field. The lot was mostly deserted, save for Greg’s and Mrs Hudson’s cars. Jake raised his snout, the black tip of his wet nose twitching as he sniffed for a scent nearby. With the air clear, he headed for the porch, his body waggling. Irene tightened her hold around Kate, and soon they were hiding by the porch, listening keenly for footsteps that would foretell an intruder. </p>
<p>“Where did you drop the fleshlight?” Jak turned his head, voice barely above a whisper. </p>
<p>“It’s in the bush next to the stairs,” Kate said, and Jake carefully ran over to the other side to dive in the bush. </p>
<p>“Got it! It’s not broken.”</p>
<p>The girls sighed in relief. Irene patted his coat. “That’s lovely. Oof. Can we go to your pocket universe and turn there?”</p>
<p>“Of course!”</p>
<p>A minute later, Jake and the girls slipped through under the house and into the room he and the puppets inhabited. Will was on his feet to greet Jake, but stopped and stuttered at the sight of tiny humans dismounting his back. </p>
<p>“Yo, did I miss something?” he said, crouching to get a better look at them. “Irene? How did you end up the size of a pixie?”</p>
<p>“Is that Will Smith?” Kate asked.</p>
<p>“I am! Pleasure to meet you, cute tiny lady. What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Kate! Whoa, weren’t you in Greg’s puppet display?”</p>
<p>Will winced. “Yeah, same as Poki over there and the Hulk.” He gestured to his companions, both of which were reading Good Omens together. “Jake, where did you find them?”</p>
<p>“End of town,” the racoon replied. “I was as surprised as you. How did you turn again?”</p>
<p>Irene and Kate exchanged a shameful look and retold the event, but neither Will nor Jake judged them for it. “Hey, I’d do the same thing,” Will said. “Just to try it out, you know?”</p>
<p>“I’d be tempted too,” Jake conceded, weighing the torch in his paws. “How does this work?”</p>
<p>“Magenta turns you bigger, turquoise smaller,” Irene said, and Kate showed him how to turn the light on. Jake aimed it at the wall to get the hang of it and then turned to the girl. </p>
<p>“Ready?”</p>
<p>“As we’ll ever be!”</p>
<p>Jake aimed the torch at them both, checked that the turquoise side of the crystal was correctly turned, and shone the beam at Kate and Irene respectively. Once back to their normal height and size, the girls fell to their knees, poking their legs and arms to make sure they were alright and no inner bleeding was sustained. </p>
<p>“Dear baby Jesus,” Kate sighed, lying down on the floor. “I love my body. Thanks, Jake. You <em>are </em>a good boy.”</p>
<p>“Of course he is,” Irene nodded, crouching to pet their fluffy friend. Jake leaned into the touch, cuddling up to her, back arched. “You’re the <em>best</em>.”</p>
<p>“Does Sherlock know there’s a talking racoon living under the house?”</p>
<p>“No. Jake finds him scary, and doesn’t want him to know for now. That’s why I crawled in without telling you. I wanted to give Jake space to introduce himself whenever he’s ready.”</p>
<p>Jake padded up to Kate to nuzzle her, and she cooed over him, scratching him under the chin. He relished the contact immeasurably, eyes closed and body relaxed. “I like the way you smell. So floral.”</p>
<p>Will chuckled and patted Irene on the back. “What will you do about the fleshlight?”</p>
<p>“We should get rid of the crystal,” Kate beat her to it, and she nodded in agreement. “It does more bad than good. Can I crush it?”</p>
<p>“Be my guest.” Irene unhooked it from the copper wire contraption and gave it to Kate, who put it on the ground and crushed it using the sole of her foot into dust. Jake tilted his head to the side and watched, beetle eyes glistening in the magical ever-present light in the room. Will swept the dust in his palm and carried it to a corner where they put most accumulated dirt. </p>
<p>“What now?” Jake asked. </p>
<p>Kate and Irene looked at each other. The question of Mary and the secret club that bothered Greg was a matter of its own. With a mutual nod, they set to tell Jake, Will, Pocahontas, and Hulk, who joined their group in the meantime, what happened and how they found themselves in Mary’s house, the strange calls, and the second mystery journal. </p>
<p>“We have to get the journal,” Irene said. “But how? We can’t sneak into her house, that’s trespassing. And we don’t know what tricks Mary has up her sleeves since we couldn’t list through it.”</p>
<p>“Should we tell Sherlock and John?” Kate asked, curling a strand of hair around her forefinger, as she did when she was thinking. </p>
<p>Irene shook her head. “I’d like to, but Mary is too dangerous. I told you what she did with the necklace, and she thinks <em>I’m</em> trying to seduce John. Imagine what she’d do if she found out that John and Sherlock are a couple!”</p>
<p>“Maybe she’d take the hint and piss off?”</p>
<p>“We can’t risk it. Why is she that attached to John, anyway?”</p>
<p>Kate shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve met her personally a few times over the years, and that was when John and I were hanging out with the Queen group at the park. It’s not like they were that close to begin with.”</p>
<p>“Huh. A crazy ex indeed.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. They weren’t even that good friends if you ask me.”</p>
<p>“Agreed. I think we should keep it between ourselves for now -- and these guys too.”</p>
<p>“Hell yeah, your words are safe with us,” Will said, high-fiving the Hulk and Pocahontas. Irene smiled at them. Kate fist bumped Pocahontas too and poked Hulk’s biceps, letting out an admiring ‘ooh’ that flattered his strength. </p>
<p>“Hey, can I help, somehow?” Jake asked after a moment of thinking. “I mean, I think I’ll be useful.”</p>
<p>“Okay, tell us more, Fluffy,” Kate said, prompting him to speak. </p>
<p>“Aw, I’ve got a nickname? I love you, Kate.”</p>
<p>“I love you too, fluffy boy!”</p>
<p>“Wee! Okay, but. I think that we should keep a closer eye on Mary. I sniffed her scent a few times and it smells… fake. Not to be rude, but she’s covering up for something, literally. I scavenge around their house a lot because they make delicious Indian food, you know, her grandparents emigrated from India, I think, I’ve heard them talk about it once or twice. They’re very sweet.”</p>
<p>“Are they?”</p>
<p>“Yeah! Mary’s grandma saw me once and instead of calling animal control she fed me leftovers. She’s nice. Very in tune with nature. But my point is, I can spy on Mary and bring you news!”</p>
<p>Irene petted his head. “Are you sure? What if she sees you?”</p>
<p>“She’ll think I’m an ordinary racoon incapable of rational thought. I’m very sneaky, don’t worry. I can climb, too, so I could technically eavesdrop on her conversations. I can do it, trust me!”</p>
<p>“It’s not about not trusting you rather than about keeping you safe, Jake,” Irene told him earnestly. “I’d hate to see you getting hurt in the process.”</p>
<p>“Irene’s right, you should consider the risk too,” Kate added. </p>
<p>Jake moved his head as though he’d just imitated an eye roll. “Girls. I appreciate that you care, but I’ve lived in these forests for years. You think I haven’t escaped more dire situations before? C’mon, let me help!”</p>
<p>“Alright,” both girls said at the same time after evaluating their options. If Mary mixed up with the wrong people and was out for Irene’s blood, then they could use all the help available. “We should arrange meetings too.”</p>
<p>“Once a week in here?” Will suggested.</p>
<p>“Sure. If there’s something urgent that you think needs out immediate attention,” Irene said to Jake, “then you can, I dunno, sniff around the premises to signal.”</p>
<p>“Or I can leave you a message!” Jake said excitedly. “My writing and reading comprehension is getting better. I can practise and leave small notes if there is an important fact or a meeting we should have.”</p>
<p>“Brilliant!” Irene grinned at him, pulling him into her arms for a hug. “Sounds good to me. Thanks, Jake. You’re the best.”</p>
<p>Will joined the praise. “Of course he is, he’s our fluffy little guy.”</p>
<p>Eventually, Kate and Irene resurfaced. Not a soul witnessed their crawling out from under the porch, fortunately, and they dusted themselves off before going inside the house. The only source of sound was coming from the living room and the TV that blasted above the regular volume. The scent of cigarette smoke became more prominent the closer they came to the room, carrying itself over from the kitchen. Greg was chain smoking again. No wonder, Mary and her friend stalked him across town and tried to trick him into signing over the Shack. Good thing he was sly as a fox and a veteran in all scammery considered. </p>
<p>The girls sat on the couch, only now realising how utterly defeated they both were after today’s unexpected escapade. The creaking of springs drew Greg’s attention, for he appeared in the archway in the blink of an eye, hair a mess and sticking out at odd angles, the cigarette butt between his teeth. He reeked of cigarettes at this point. </p>
<p>“There you are,” he said, and if Irene didn’t know better, she’d say his shoulders sagged in relief. Maybe he grew paranoid of the club members and thought they’d self-invite themselves in. Greg rubbed his neck. “Are you okay?”</p>
<p>“Tired,” Kate groaned, Irene grunting in agreement. They put their feet up on the coffee table. Mrs Hudson appeared next to Greg, a sunny smile on her face. </p>
<p>“You see, Greg? Told you they were fine.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know… where you were,” Greg said, sighing. He looked haggard and tired. Stressed. Irene felt bad for him, but if Jake gets some good gossip, she and Kate may be able to stop Mary from seeking out the Shack’s deed. “Actually, where exactly were you?”</p>
<p>Irene looked at Kate, who, without sparing energy to talk loud, replied, “Out hiking. Irene was a scout in Britain. I thought I’d show her around. I forgot how taxing the hikes can be, bruh.”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Greg seemed to have bought it. “Can you let me know where you are the next time you skedaddle off?”</p>
<p>“Forgot my phone in the gift shop. Sorry that I ditched on you.”</p>
<p>“Right. Cool, just… let me know. And no problem, the traffic was slow today.”</p>
<p>Mrs Hudson patted his arm. “They’ll remember to call you, Greg. Now cut out the smoking, will you? God knows your lungs are weeping.”</p>
<p>“Sure, Hudders.” He went to dispose of the cigarette bud and change his clothes. </p>
<p>“If he smokes a single cigarette more, whack him on the head, will you?” Mrs Hudson addressed the girls, and they gladly reassured her. “Good. Relax now, I’m sure your hike was exhausting.”</p>
<p>If only she knew.</p>
<p>“That said, I’m knackered. I’ll go home now, Angelo is making dinner for us tonight. Have a nice rest of your day, girls!”</p>
<p>“You too!”</p>
<p>The front door closed. Irene and Kate mindlessly stared at the TV, brains and bodies catatonic. Finding out part of a conspiracy was too much information to handle for one afternoon. The TV played reality shows, and when even those ended, Gordon Ramsay’s <em>Hell’s Kitchen</em> came on; a rerun. Irene and Kate leaned into each other, heads bumping lightly. </p>
<p>“Hey, uh,” Greg came forward, holding two paper cups full of coffee in both hands. He looked calmer, relieved. “I went out and brought some iced coffee. I know you like those. The guys have drank theirs, and I kept yours in the fridge since it’s too hot to keep it normal outside.”</p>
<p>“Ooh, thanks Greg,” Kate said, suddenly springing to life to get her cup. Greg had put her metal straw in it already and she thirstily sipped on the ambrosia of life. </p>
<p>“What are the guys doing?” Irene asked, taking her own. Greg shrugged, collapsing in his armchair. </p>
<p>“Snogging, most likely. They came back from a hike as well.”</p>
<p>“Typical.”</p>
<p>“Mhm.” All three of them stared at the plasma, watching Gordon cuss out arrogant chefs and scream for the lamb sauce. “Pizza sounds good for dinner?”</p>
<p>“Perfect. We should get the spinach one.”</p>
<p>“Alright. What about you, Kate?”</p>
<p>Kate slurped the rest of her iced goodness and sat up. “Can’t stay, sorry. Mom’s making ramen today, I promised to help her. Can you drive me home?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I will. When are you supposed to go home? I’ll pick up the pizza on my way back.”</p>
<p>“Five or six, but sooner is better. I need a shower.”</p>
<p>“Alright,” Greg said, turning the volume down a fraction. “At least we’ll get to watch the whole episode of Gordon yelling at those idiots. And girls?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>Greg gave them a fleeting glance. “Be careful going out, okay?”</p>
<p>Irene and Kate exchanged a look. If they worried Greg by lying about going on a hike when in reality they have uncovered a conspiracy concerning him and John, the least they can do is promise him this. “Of course, Greg.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>next up episode 10! A very special one! A new crossover fandom on the loose soon! In 5 days!!!!!!!!!!<br/>I hope you're all doing good peeps, I'm stressing over chemistry</p>
<p>words: 5221<br/>updated: 5.4. 2021<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice mystery day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care and don't turn small,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0049"><h2>49. Operation: REDBEARD I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is a lame funfair</p><p>episode 10, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello, peeps, this episode will mark the first half os S1- Deja Vu of this fic!<br/>muehehehe and a new crossover is on its way, and starting with this episode, the lore will really kick off and the plot will T H I C K E N<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and pizza that I'll have for lunch in 30 minutes (posted at 11:35am)<br/>enjoy</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Night morphed into dawn, and dawn into morning. John’s digital clock sitting on the old nightstand displayed 7:12, the red colon punctuating every passing second by blinking in and out of perceivable existence. Outside, birds could be heard chirping, adding to the natural peace of the surrounding pine forest that shielded the Shack from the rest of Reichenbach Falls and the world. </p><p>John has been blessed by nine whole hours of sleep at that point and merely napped in the abundant silence. He stretched his arms and legs like a cat until his joints popped pleasantly and he yawned, content. He opened one eye to glance at the clock, then at the light illuminating the walls in purple and yellow hues through the window. The sun wouldn’t shine on this side of the house for another few hours yet, but the sky has already been brighter than John’s phone screen at three A.M. in the morning, providing enough light for his room to be lit just right; not too bright nor too dim. </p><p>He turned to his right side, an arm sneaking under his pillow as he rested his head on his bicep. He should get up and do more stretching before the day starts. Maybe exercise and then have a shower. The summer days and nights have gotten progressively hotter, and he sweated a lot more than he generally liked to. But then, he also liked to do nothing until it was required of him to move. And seeing as he kept being on his toes nowadays what with Sherlock and Irene dragging him into crazy adventures…. Being lazy it is. </p><p>But there was a factor he hadn’t accounted for: his bladder. Which, as inconvenient as it was, begged for itself to be emptied. John considered not getting up, but he gave in, not wanting to have to run to the bathroom only to find it occupied when the rest of the house wakes up. Greg is probably already up and getting ready to scam tourists, and Mrs Hudson is probably having her morning tea, but the Adler-Holmes siblings hardly took five minutes per each in the bathroom in the morning. Oh well. His bladder wasn’t one to compromise with. </p><p>Grunting, John sat up, running a hand over his face and through his hair. He picked up his shorts from where they lay on the floor and put them on, not wanting to risk running into Mrs Hudson in only his boxers. Or Irene, or Sherlock, though we wouldn’t really mind the latter so much. </p><p>He quietly opened his door and padded over to the bathroom, locking himself in as a habit. He may as well have that cold shower and wash off all the sweat now. The attic above stayed silent, which meant that the siblings were still asleep. While he got the shower started, he brushed his teeth and then tossed off the clothes he’d bothered to put on -- really useless, thinking back. </p><p>Once he was done, he closed off the taps and stepped on a mat at the border of the shower corner, reaching for a towel. John made a quick work of drying himself, suddenly realising that he forgot to grab a fresh pair of boxer briefs. And he sure as fuck won’t put the pair he slept in back on. Eh, fuck it. </p><p>He threw both the boxers and the shorts in the clothes basket for when they’ll be taken for a wash and then unlocked the door, securing the towel around his hips. John peered out, thinking himself silly for acting like a paranoid celebrity about to do something embarrassing in front of the paparazzi, but thankfully the corridor was empty and devoid of any signs of life, save for that weird plant Greg kept in front of his office. He tiptoed back to his room and closed the door behind him, darting for his dresser to fish out new boxers. Damnit, he was down to two pairs (well, one since he took half of the stock now). He needs to do his laundry. Or nag Greg to do it. Yep, nagging Greg it is. </p><p>John put on the boxers and some shorts he dug from his wardrobe -- beige in colour, and they had lots of pockets. He hung the towel on his chair to dry there and flopped back on his bed, shirtless. That felt better, refreshing. And even his pillow and mattress cooled down and provided a nice chill against his skin. </p><p>Just when it seemed he’d drift off for a couple more minutes, his ears picked up the sound of creaking floor boards. John smiled to himself, assuming a dead-as-a-log position on the bed, one leg bent in the knee, both arms propped under his head instead of the deflated pillow. He’ll see whether Sherlock will deduce that he’s fully awake or not. He willed himself to stop smiling and look as much asleep as he could.</p><p>Sure enough, the hinges on his door whined as his London boy skillfully sneaked in. He didn’t hear any footsteps, but that he attributed to the carpet that muffled most steps. John’s head was tilted to the left facing the wall, and he focused on keeping his breaths even, reciting every bone in the human body to keep his lips from curving into a grin. He felt the mattress dip as Sherlock sat down on the bed. For a while, nothing happened, and John suspected that Sherlock was watching him. Perhaps he heard him shuffle in the bathroom and knew John was trying to prank him and waited for him to break character. Too bad John was similarly competitive, if that were the case. </p><p>“John?” Sherlock whispered, but no answer came. John heard him sigh dreamily, and then he splayed himself out next to him, Sherlock’s lean body aligning with John’s. Another whisper tickled his ear. “John, wake up.”</p><p>John refused to comply that soon, but it became harder when his boyfriend’s baritone sent shivers down his spine. He managed not to give himself away, repeating a mantra consisting of all 650 muscles of the human body to himself. </p><p>Sherlock was set on waking him up, however. He nuzzled into John’s temple, repeating his name two more times before he settled his curly head on John’s free right bicep. “John. I’m bored.”</p><p>
  <em>Musculus pectoralis major, musculus pectoralis minor, musculus serratus anterior….</em>
</p><p>Sherlock started tracing his lean fingers across John’s exposed skin. The touch was thrilling, and he barely resisted sighing contentedly or arching into the soft fingertips that currently trailed his sternum. Fuck, okay: <em>biceps brachii, triceps brachii….</em> Uh, not a good idea since those were the places Sherlock so delightfully traced. <em>Deltoid, pectoralis major again, sternum….</em></p><p>John focused on keeping his stomach relaxed when Sherlock moved his hand lower, drawing slow, lazy circles over his belly. Sherlock hummed contemplatively.</p><p>“I can’t believe you’re not ticklish,” he murmured, his voice vibrating through John’s rib cage since he rested his head there now. John fought hard not to grin, his jaw setting, teeth pressing together painfully from the sheer effort. “Unfair. Honestly, John.” Next, Sherlock poked his stomach. “Wake up. Please. I’m beyond bored at this point.” John held it together. Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh. “You’re being tedious. <em>Sleep</em>. As if it’s needed.”</p><p>“Hm, you didn’t think that when you slept for twelve hours last week,” John husked, finally allowing himself to grin and open his eyes to see fluffy curls tingling his chest. Sherlock immediately propped himself up on his elbow, hair adorably ruffled to the left side as he smiled at John. </p><p>“I <em>knew</em> you were awake!” he said triumphantly, squinting at John. “I heard you in the loo, you know. Blatantly obvious.”</p><p>“The loo?”</p><p>“Bathroom,” Sherlock explained, snuggling closer to John. He threw a long leg over John’s right leg, hugging his torso. John sneaked a hand in those dark brown curls, a gasp escaping Sherlock’s mouth. He became much more pliant in his arms this way; he liked having his scalp massaged. “Feels nice.”</p><p>“Mhm,” John purred, wriggling on the bed to fit better into Sherlock’s embrace. “How come you’re up? Irene’s definitely going to sleep until nine.”</p><p>“She’s snoring,” Sherlock complained, his breath brushing over John’s clavicle. “And I missed you.”</p><p>“I missed you too,” John smiled, rolling them over so that Sherlock was lying on his back, and he kissed him good morning. “Better?”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes twinkled with mirth and adoration. His nose wrinkled as he smiled, a little shyly, and nodded. “Better.” He tipped his chin up in invitation and John kissed him again, slowly, languidly, savouring the connection of soft lips and cupid’s bow against his own. </p><p>He cupped Sherlock’s cheeks, slowly shifting his hands lower to his neck, clavicles, sides of his ribs, and finally his stomach. And then John tickled Sherlock, his thighs pinning him to the bed as Sherlock’s abdomen flexed, muscles spasming from the suddenness of the attack. </p><p>“Ha! You’re ticklish!” John said, laughing at Sherlock’s half-offended, half-shocked expression. </p><p>“John! No -- stop -- I can’t -- no!” he squeaked, trying to fight off John, but he was too weak to tip them over and return the offense. Sherlock giggled and giggled, throwing his head back on the pillow as John joined his laughter, his fingers running over Sherlock’s ribs, sides, and stomach. “I hate you! Staph! <em>Jawn! Nooo</em>--”</p><p>John completely lost it, listening to Sherlock’s high-pitched, choked off sentences. And the <em>squealing</em>. Sherlock seemed to find John’s giggles infectious in turn, and they were stuck in a circle of endless laughter for a few minutes. Then Sherlock tried to tip them over with John weakened by the fits of giggles. </p><p>Unfortunately, Sherlock’s attempt at overruling John didn’t go quite as planned, and they found themselves slipping off the bed, dragging the sheet with them. Both pairs of eyes widened, and John had enough strength left to arrange them so that he ended up on his back, his spine digging into the thin carpet uncomfortably, and a very ruffled Sherlock Holmes in his arms. </p><p>“Are you alright?” he asked, hissing as his skin brushed over the harsh material below. Hopefully he won’t have burns. </p><p>Sherlock looked up, sitting up on the balls of his feet. “I had a soft landing,” he smirked, dancing out of John’s reach. </p><p>“I’ll get you next time,” John promised, getting up and stretching. He pretended not to see Sherlock staring at him or his flat stomach, his lips twitching upwards. He turned to look at the time: 7:44. A stomach grumbled. Both of the boys’. </p><p>“Breakfast?” he asked Sherlock, who shrugged. John grabbed his hand, intertwining their fingers and leading them to the kitchen. </p><p>Downstairs John took to making them toasts while Sherlock decided to take on the role of butter applier, smudging the milk product over the crispy bread while John waited for the next batch to pop up. Sherlock managed to locate the blueberry jam John had asked Greg to buy the other day, applying an abundant amount of the sweetness on the toasts. </p><p>In the meantime, John got them each a glass of milk to go with it, and they moved to the table, sitting next to each other. “I have to admit,” Sherlock said as he bit a piece of toast off, “this jam is better than I expected.”</p><p>“Right? I was surprised myself,” John said, sipping milk to wash down the sweet taste of blueberries and sugar. “Honestly, this is the second best discovery of my life.”</p><p>“What’s the first?” </p><p>“You, that’s easy.”</p><p>“Me?”</p><p>“Yes, you gorgeous madman,” John said, leaning into Sherlock. He pulled him in for a sweet kiss, Sherlock a bit stunned by the confession, but it was true, wasn’t it? Yep. John meant it all. </p><p>Sherlock cleared his throat and set down his plate and half-eaten toast slice. “I… Likewise,” he said formally, cringing at the tone he used. He twisted his torso towards John, looking him over. His face softened, and he looked vulnerable in the blue and orange light streaming in. “It may sound exceptionally ridiculous to say… but yes, I do feel that too. That you’re… the best thing that happened to me. At least so far.”</p><p>“Such a flatterer,” John shoved him playfully in the arm, and then kissed him on the cheek. </p><p>Greg decided to interrupt their precious moment by announcing himself in the doorway with a loud yawn. “Being decent, you two?” he asked, his voice rough. </p><p>Sherlock flopped back on his chair, his good mood flattened by the undignified entrance of John’s grunkle who didn’t offer much in the form of aesthetics this morning. He slept in, but it did no service for the bags under his eyes or his greying hair. If anything, it seemed to have silvered further since the beginning of summer. Old man, his grunkle. John rolled his eyes and continued eating his toasts as Greg walked over to the coffee machine and considered the stale brown liquid that floated in the glass carafe. </p><p>“You could use some food first, Greg,” John told him, spitting crumbs all over his plate and Sherlock’s arm. He apologised to him by nudging him with his knee and a wink. </p><p>“Nah, it’s coffee or death,” Greg replied, dumping yesterday’s brew in the sink and rinsing the carafe thoroughly. He refilled the reservoir with water and dumped powdered coffee in the filter, switching the machine on. “Irene asleep?”</p><p>“Yep,” Sherlock popped the consonant, gathering his and John’s empty plates to carry them to the sink as well, but he didn’t bother washing them. “She won’t bless us with her godly presence for at least the next two or three hours.”</p><p>“Cool, there’s no rush.” The coffee machine beeped, growled, and the coffee stopped filtering. Greg poured himself half a mug, adding three teaspoons of sugar, and then milk to top it off. “By the way, there’s a funfair in town today. Near the City Hall, I think.”</p><p>“What about it?” asked John, leaning back in his chair. He put up a leg across Sherlock’s thighs, just because he could. </p><p>Greg sipped on his coffee, shrugging. “We could go there. Or, well, you kids can go. Mrs Hudson and I need to go pick up a couple boards for repairs in Madison Prim, some places on the roof got leaks. We can drop you off.”</p><p>“That’d be nice,” John said, chastising his mind for darting to plans of where to drag Sherlock to secluded places to kiss him senseless behind some buildings. Jeez, it’s not even eight yet and he’s planning ahead.</p><p>“Why don’t you hire a company to repair the Shack?” Sherlock asked Greg, a hand caressing John’s shin absentmindedly. “It’s not like you lack the finances. And it’d take off some work for Mrs Hudson too. She shouldn’t be straining herself too much in my opinion, she’s not getting any younger.”</p><p>“Oi! Don’t let her hear you,” Greg shushed him, smiling into his mug. “Yeah, I know. But she’s the one who insists on doing it. I’ll help her, of course. I know how to handle tools, and I agree that Mrs Hudson shouldn’t be the sole person who oversees and does the reparations. And besides, if we’re capable of DIY-ing ourselves, why hire somebody else?”</p><p>“It would save you the trouble,” Sherlock countered, frowning. “You’re not the most eager upkeeper.”</p><p>“Underestimating me, Sherly?”</p><p>“Don’t call me <em>Sherly</em>,” he scowled, crossing his arms in offense. John giggled. Sherly. So much teasing potential. “It sounds like I’m an old woman selling amulets on a roadside in Connecticut.”</p><p>“That’s weirdly specific.”</p><p>“I made it up.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>“You two talk like random NPCs in Skyrim,” John shook his head, listening to their monotonous exchange. It’s been a long time since he played the game. “When are we going?”</p><p>Greg blinked at the clock above the dining table. He rubbed at his eyes, squinting. “Let’s say one. I want to eat lunch in peace before I have to step out of the house and interact with people.”</p><p>“That’s one thing we agree on,” Sherlock murmured, rising from his chair. John followed in suit, the boys aiming it upstairs again, and they both dutifully ignored Greg’s amused smirk at the two of them. </p><p><em>Shut up</em>, John mouthed in his grunkle’s direction, shaking his head with a rueful grin. As if <em>he</em> never fell in love before.</p><p>~</p><p>Lestrade’s car stopped near the curb, the engine on, and the radio blasting 80s hits like there’s no tomorrow. Irene stepped out first, Sherlock right after her, but John lingered inside, listening to his uncle. </p><p>“What?” Sherlock heard him say, and his gaze flicked towards the Adler-Holmes siblings. “You couldn’t tell me sooner? Jeez. I don’t mind, but I thought I’d be with Sherlock and Irene.”</p><p>“Sorry, John. I underestimated how much stuff we’d need for the repairs,” Mrs Hudson apologised, her hand caressing the golden necklace around her neck. </p><p>“Nah, it’s alright. Greg will do the laundry for this, though. Sherlock? Bit of a bump here, I need to help Greg and Mrs Hudson out in the shops.”</p><p>“And what about Irene and me?” Sherlock asked, trying not to sound clingy or distressed. </p><p>“We’ll be fine,” Irene waved them all off confidently. “Just give us money to waste and we’ll pass the time no problem.”</p><p>“I worked hard to scam this off those Idaho tourists yesterday, so don’t let them get back at you, alright?” Greg told her as he pushed a conveniently thick stack of paper notes in her hand. </p><p>“Roger that! Let’s go, Sherlock. You’ll win John a teddy bear or something.”</p><p>Sherlock let himself be dragged to the park in front of the City Hall, throwing puppy eyes at the car speeding away. John waved him a sad goodbye, but he expected they’d spend the funfair together as a trio or just him and John snogging behind the trees while Irene found her own activity to avoid boredom and third wheeling. </p><p>“I wanted <em>John </em>to win me a bear,” he whined, shoulders slouching sulkily. </p><p>“He’ll get around to it. They’ll be back soon enough. And then John will shower you in gifts and whatever else you need. Ew, wait --”</p><p>“<em>NO</em>, we’re <em>not</em> doing your innuendos right now.”</p><p>“I didn’t plan to make a joke.”</p><p>“I don’t believe you.”</p><p>“Oh, please, as if I don’t have better things to do.”</p><p>“You don’t, which is precisely why you choose to torture me by blurting out sexually charged sentences implying exactly what you know John and I don’t get down to.”</p><p>Irene snorted, looking delighted as she pointed a finger at him. “Haha! You just made an innuendo yourself!”</p><p>“Why do I even bother?” Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. </p><p>He felt Irene’s hand squeeze his arm amiably. “Because you’re a twat who has the need to correct everything and everyone. And besides, you haven’t gotten <em>down</em> to that stuff <em>yet</em>.”</p><p>“I’ll suffocate you in your sleep.”</p><p>“I want to see you try.”</p><p>“You won’t. It’ll be pitch black and I’m sneaky.”</p><p>“And I can kick. In dire times of crisis, be as the horses do.”</p><p>“Be as the --”</p><p>“<em>Haya!</em>”</p><p>In the split second that Sherlock dared pry his disapproving glare off his step-sister, she got it into her thick, stubborn, and incredibly combat-imaginative head that making a fake karate kick pass at him would do no harm. Just for the sake of a joke. Except it couldn’t be taken as such if her smoothly-shaven ankle of an assault weapon flicked in front of his very eyes, booping the tip of his nose as a scary reminder this could’ve been a fracture, not a mere <em>whoosh</em> of a kick. Sooner than Sherlock could reprimand Irene for her short-sightedness regarding his general health in bloody <em>America</em> of all places, Irene lost her balance and eeked as she fell backwards, fingers digging into Sherlock’s white shirt. He caught her by the arm, her karate leg thumping painfully to the ground, much to his satisfaction. </p><p>“Ouch, that hurt,” Irene hissed, using her step-brother as leverage to get up. She crouched, rubbing at the ball of her foot. </p><p>“Honestly, Irene,” Sherlock huffed, irritated. He assumed his disapproving, crossed-arms-and-narrowed-eyes look and loomed over her. “‘Be as the horses do.’ Where on Earth have you heard that abysmal cross-species connection of a saying?”</p><p>“Tumblr, duh. You’d know if you had one.”</p><p>Sherlock massaged his temple. He needed John here. “Besides, there’s a flaw. Horses can kick straight ahead, or behind them. Since you kicked diagonally and up, that doesn’t count as a horse kick.”</p><p>“Why do you have to nitpick? It’s bullshit from the internet.”</p><p>“If you have the need to translate it into real life, I’d rather you be thorough.”</p><p>“Git.”</p><p>“Likewise.”</p><p>“Bastard.”</p><p>“French baguette.”</p><p>Irene burst out laughing, and not long after so did Sherlock. It earned them quite a few glances of confusion, but who cared? They started walking around the funfair, elbow to elbow. Banters like these felt good. Light-hearted enough not to be taken seriously, and Sherlock could invent new insults tailored specially for Irene that weren’t too harsh for his tastes. He never minded her crude usage of the typical British curses; they sounded funny coming from her and she didn’t overdo it. </p><p>“Do we want to get food?” Irene asked, sniffing the air for a scent indicating where the nearest stall that sold edible food was located. </p><p>“Sure, but nothing too sweet yet,” Sherlock said, following her to the right side of the park. It served well that this area was well-hidden by the trees from the sun; the shade felt much cooler against his delicate complexion. He’ll probably spend most of the time waiting for John here at the tables and benches, anyway. Maybe he could get dirt samples….</p><p>“Hot-dogs?” Irene cut through his train of thought, nodding at a man sitting by a grill. </p><p>“You can go, but I think I’ll opt for the fries over there.” He pointed at a neighbouring stall where the sound of oil frying thin, lengthwise-cut potatoes sizzled towards them. </p><p>“They sell big bags of it. Whoa, look!”</p><p>And indeed, the woman serving behind the stall took a giant scoop out for an awaiting customer, stuffing it in a similarly big pile of finished, salted fries. Then she bent in the knees to take out a sturdy paper bag and shoved an unhealthy amount of the greased good in, wasting not a single golden potato in the process. Now <em>that’s</em> skill.  </p><p>“I’m getting a hot-dog, you get two of those bags,” Irene ordered, almost salivating, giving him five green notes, notably much more than he’d need to pay, but whatever. He can keep some of it. Irene darted to the hot-dog man, and Sherlock got their fries ready, asking for a sprinkle of more salt for Irene’s portion. She always preferred her sodium levels sky high. </p><p>He decided not to wait in the open sun any longer than necessary, it tickled his fair skin already, and so he walked to the shade and under the crowns of green trees, choosing an abandoned table to sit at. Irene would find him easily enough, his white shirt glowed in the shadows, especially since it was freshly washed and ironed. A courtesy of Mrs Hudson, undoubtedly. </p><p>Irene joined him moments later, munching on the grilled, mustard- and ketchup-drowned meat of questionable origins. The inside of the bun has been toasted too, he noticed, and provided for a good crunch, but not too hard so as to obstruct proper ingestion. Sherlock nipped at his own fries, relishing the salt and softness of the thin potatoes. Fish and chips would forever stay his favourite meal, and this obviously couldn’t compare, but it tasted delicious nonetheless. Admittedly, it surpassed his prior expectations that it’d be just another American grease-fest, but the oil stayed at remarkably normal levels. Yep, he made a good choice to leave space for Americans to surprise him randomly. </p><p>Sherlock bit on another chip and watched Irene. Her menstruation has started recently, so it was no wonder she ate like a bear before hibernation. It’ll do her good, though, so that’s what mattered. It’s not like she has qualms over her weight or that it bothers her; her figure is nice, elegant, and lean. A specialty of her metabolism. Binge-eating every twenty-eight days does no harm, does it? Moreover, it kept her hormonal irritation at bay, which in turn made her less likely to sulk in bed all day and scroll through that atrocious webcomic of hers and snap at Sherlock when he breathed loudly. </p><p>By the time Sherlock finished his evaluation of Irene, she licked her fingers clean, the paper bag empty. Huh, that’s even faster than last month. Damn, he should’ve asked for water somewhere. It’s too hot for her to stuff herself full of salt and then walk around in the sun. She needs to stay hydrated. </p><p>“I’ll go get some water,” she said, beating him to it. “Want a soda?”</p><p>“Get Sprite or Fanta,” Sherlock told her, mouth full, as Irene threw her empty greased papers in the bin. She hummed a response and departed for her hunt for drinks. “And no Doctor Peppers or some other pseudo-sugary, carcinogenic drinks the colonies came up with!”</p><p>Satisfied that he gave a forewarning about his own preferences regarding sugary drinks and throwing semi-incorrect shade at the US, Sherlock returned his attention to the fries, building indeterminable structures using a few of them while munching on the rest of the horde in the meantime. He tuned out most of the ‘funfair’ that, in all brutal honesty, deserved to be incinerated, erased from memory of every civilian going there today, and perished from this town. </p><p>To be fair the food smelled delicious and tasted great, but the attractions? Abominable. Half of them hardly held a safety license, Sherlock was sure of it. The constructions seemed dubious at the least, but how much they’d withstand for the duration of the event? He better not calculate the statistics yet. Even the stalls with prizes lacked imagination and all there was to see were those typical, adorably ugly plushies and weird kits full of plastic toys for children which could be obtained by paying the man or woman in the stall, then they’d fail miserably, but whoops -- they’re out of money! Scam. Not unheard of, of course. Sherlock currently lived in a Mystery Shack owned by a French Canadian who had a knack for scammery and skyrocketing the gift shop prices unexpectedly (and the people <em>gave in and bought it, anyway</em>), so he wasn’t new to this shady business. </p><p>It’d be much more enjoyable with John by his side, Sherlock thought. He rested his chin on his palm, biting a fry in half, chewing on it sadly. He doesn’t have to be ashamed about wanting John, needing him nearby almost constantly. He’s gotten too comfortable, perhaps, but his world didn’t feel complete without the blond, bloody charming Canadian that accompanied Sherlock on their adventures. </p><p>Sherlock sighed dreamily, using one limp fried potato to stab another, limper potato. Hm, murder. Would John perhaps like to tag along real-life cases later, too? He’s a medical student, his area of expertise will be invaluable. He’s perfect to be Sherlock’s partner in the professional sense as well. Well, he’s perfect overall, <em>obviously</em>. But… maybe real murders are where he might draw the line? Sherlock wouldn’t force him into situations he disliked, of course not, but with John, every clue was sharper, easier to find; illuminated. John truly was a conductor of light for Sherlock, in many aspects. </p><p>This decision, however, lay in the far future. They need to graduate first, even though Sherlock slowly started to put himself forward. In Reichenbach Falls, too, but Donovan seemed to have closed off to the idea of Sherlock helping out. Those damned social cues…. Why were people so afraid of facing the truth? It only prolonged their suffering. Damn Donovan’s fears and doubts, he’ll solve Henry’s case just to prove her wrong and hopefully make her feel better, maybe, if he musters up the energy to face her -- which, frankly, he doesn’t have right now. </p><p>Anyhow. The debate of John joining Sherlock on cases when he flashes out his detective career can wait. At least for a few more weeks. </p><p>Suddenly, the sound of something sniffing and something whimpering caught Sherlock’s attention. He whipped his head around, throwing his right leg over the bench on which he sat and looked back to the trees and the bins. Two dogs -- or to be precise, a mother <em>and </em>a puppy -- circled the rubbish in hopes to find an edible source of scraps that would sustain them. </p><p>The mother had a long, red and white coat of grimy fur and her paws were covered in dried mud and dust. She crawled in a semi-crouch, snout twitching imperceptibly as she took in the scents. Her puppy, on the other hand, was much more careless in its inquisitive nature and walked around his mother, tail wagging wildly, the whimpers more provocative than desperate for help or chasing hunger per se.</p><p>Sherlock took out his phone and googled the breed he suspected they were: Irish Setter. The puppy had a rich chestnut-coloured coat, the hairs shorter than his mother’s. It couldn’t be older than three or four months. Sherlock looked around and tried to see if they belonged to any attending passersby, but who would let their dogs wander off to sniff at rubbish? Plus, neither the mother nor the puppy wore a collar indicative of ownership. Strays, then. Healthy as far as his primitive observations of another species went. But hungry. The mother was certainly starving, nipping at cartons and plastics that bore traces of food. The puppy seemed to be getting distracted from his hunger by butterflies flying around as it snapped its tiny baby teeth at them, mouth clapping shut each and every time, empty of catch. </p><p>Sherlock pocketed his phone and reached for the fries. It’s not like he’d manage to eat them all alone, in the end. His original plan was to save them for John, but seeing as there are two lives to be saved, he couldn’t wait. He’ll understand, he’s a caretaker himself. </p><p>Making kissy noises to draw the dogs’ attention, Sherlock dropped to his knees (sod the jeans) and shook the bag of fries in his left hand, leaving his right hand free. What’s the point of luring a dog close to you when you can’t try to pet it? The puppy noticed him first, and he darted for his person immediately, pink tongue flapping happily at the sight of a <em>friendly human</em>. Sherlock grabbed a handful of fries (thank goodness his weren’t as salty as Irene’s) and outstretched an open palm to the pupper. It did slow down at the sight of food and approached him at a slower pace, black nose twitching in a way Sherlock found flawlessly adorable. He always had a soft spot for dogs of all shapes and sizes, but namely large and medium-sized breeds, like Irish Setters for example. </p><p>The puppy licked his fingers, cold nose wetting his skin as the baby doggo lapped at a few fries before it understood that <em>Ah!! Food good!! Moar!! Hooman good!! Puppy love!!</em> and any barriers left therefore vanished. The ball of fur sat at Sherlock’s knees, both front paws resting on his thighs to be able to eat better from Sherlock’s hand. </p><p>Sherlock smiled, making a show out of drawing his right hand closer to the pupper in case it skittied away. It did eye the fleshy object, but the fries were remarkably more interesting, and it let itself be petted. Sherlock could tell that both dogs spent quite some time on the streets; the puppy’s coat was dusty just touching it, leaving a residue of dirt on Sherlock’s finger pads. </p><p>Now, he can’t leave a family of two -- a single mother, even! -- out on the streets. That would be cruel, and whoever left these two to Fate was a monumental moron. Just <em>look </em>at them! Dogs, the most innocent of all, and starving like <em>this</em>? Unacceptable. They have to take them to the Shack and nurture them, and keep them, and love them, and raise the puppy, and train it and… </p><p>The sneeze of the mother dog snapped him back to reality. Sherlock looked up, seeing that she inched closer from the rubbish she was picking at, still semi-crouched and wary of him. Her eyes looked haunted, exhausted. No wonder, it must be hard raising a puppy without a proper home and consistent diet. Oh no, Sherlock’s heart couldn’t take it. But the mother may be more fleeting than her child, more experienced in how this cruel world functioned. He had to be gentle and watch out for signs of distress in order not to spook her. That could yield a number of scenarios, one ending in a bite or even worse. </p><p>“Hello, mama,” Sherlock said lightly, but not loudly. Soft sounds are more pleasant. He made a few kissy noises, letting a bunch of fries on his thighs for the puppy to eat as he got another handful and offered it to the mother. “Want some? I have plenty. You don’t have to worry, I won’t hurt you or your baby.”</p><p>Sherlock watched her inch closer, and he saw her tail wag. A good sign, in his opinion. He tried to minimise himself; in times like these, he became hyper aware of his height and tried to mentally shrink so as not to seem too threatening. It worked, and the mother padded closer. It didn’t escape him that she slightly favoured her right hind leg over her left. <em>Suffered an injury at some point, may still ache, don’t attempt to touch yet</em>, he filed away. Sherlock focused on keeping his breathing steady and his left arm was outstretched at an angle that wouldn’t have him fatigued soon, his right hand consistently petting the red puppy. </p><p>“There’s a good girl,” he whispered as the mother finally came close enough to him. He lowered his hand in tune with the movement of her lean head and put the fries on the ground. He registered her body stiffen, her breathing changed, and it was a matter of seconds until a growl came out of her throat. Better eliminate that entirely. “Have at thee. There’s more in the bag.”</p><p>Sherlock decided to carefully rip open the bag of fries, stuffing a few in the puppy’s direction, which now sat happily in his lap. His tummy already grew bigger, filling quicker than an adult’s. The mother wagged her tail more now that she gulped down something relatively normal, and Sherlock let her finish the pile of fired goods on her own. Mothers especially could become territorial near foods and puppies, and it’s best to get one out of the way first. She didn’t appear to have a problem with her child making a friend, at least.</p><p>“Do you have names?” Sherlock asked no one in particular, though he looked down at the puppy, which leaned against Sherlock’s belly and yawned. <em>Oh my God dogs are so precious</em>, Sherlock thought, not containing his giddiness. The mother sat down next to him, licking at her mouth. “Tasted good, I take it? Okay. I may buy you something more nutritious, though. Would you like that?”</p><p>The mother sniffed at his leg, licking the denim for residual grease and lingering scent of potatoes. Sherlock used his right hand that was in her field of vision to offer for a sniff, which she accepted. She let him pet her, and he was tactful in his administrations of affection. So much of that has built up over the last week he found that channeling it to two homeless dogs was an adequate outlet. Besides John, of course. </p><p>“Hm. I liked to play pirates as a kid,” he told the dogs. “I lost my captain, unfortunately, so I became one by succession, technically.” </p><p>Sherlock and his older brother Mycroft used to play pirates together whenever he came home for summer. Sherlock always nominated Mycroft to be the Captain of the ship, because he had the wisdom of one and he always carried Sherlock on his shoulders so that he could oversee whatever events occurred as Mycroft’s First Mate. But even though he lost his brother over a decade ago, the good memories stayed. He tried to stash them in a box and stuff it deep down, but the fondest moments kept popping up every once in a while when he got sentimental. He hasn’t visited the pirate memos in months. Maybe this was a good chance to amend that. </p><p>“I could give you pirate names,” Sherlock mused out loud. He looked the mother over, and searched his mind for any female pirates he may remember. “Maybe Grace O’Malley? Shortened to Grace, of course. That’s more practical. Do you like Grace?”</p><p>At the name, the dog looked straight at him, inquisitively. Sherlock’s lips curled up, and he scratched Grace behind the ears, but he kept his touch light. Better not risk scaring her now. </p><p>“And what about you, little puppy? Okay, I’ll move you on your back now, don’t worry -- okay. You’re a boy. And you have a red coat…. Oh, stupid, I know what will suit you.” He halted, but shook his head at himself for being too touchy-feely about this. “Redbeard sounds nice, I think. Hm? Are you okay with Redbeard?”</p><p>Redbeard wagged his tail vigorously, probably hearing Sherlock’s words as unintelligible, incoherent soft blabber in his floppy ears. </p><p>“Grace and Redbeard it is, then,” Sherlock confirmed, picking Redbeard up and nuzzling his fur. So what if the puppy’s coat was a bit dusty? He’ll shower and wash his face later. </p><p>Grace inched closer to Sherlock, and he let her, staying as still as he could to give her a chance to back out. Who knows how long it’s been since she’s stumbled upon a friend? She invaded Sherlock’s left side to sniff at Redbeard, whose tail flapped against Sherlock’s ribs as he twisted around to nuzzle his mother. </p><p><em>I love dogs, maybe just as much as I love John</em>, Sherlock thought, fingers combing through Grace’s longer fur on her neck. <em>It’s a close comparison, though</em>.</p><p>How long have the dogs been left on the streets? They were in a relatively good shape, but Grace limped, and both of them could have worms or other parasites; certainly fleas. He better not eat anything without washing his hands first. Or at least that’s something Mummy drilled into him when he played with unknown doggos as a kid. Looking at Redbeard and his patient mama, however, Sherlock couldn’t imagine not petting them. Or giving them food. </p><p>“Excuse me, sir,” a man that appeared on his side said. He was wearing a beige overall bearing the symbol of the local animal control station, and he carried a slip lead.  “Are those your dogs?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock replied on the spot, not thinking twice. He also realised that he had adopted a faux American accent in the split second his neurons caught up to what was implied if he didn’t claim the dogs. “These two have got lost on a hiking trip a week ago. My boyfriend and I were scared since we didn’t know where they wandered off, but we found them!”</p><p>“Why haven’t you called the Animal Control? We haven’t received any calls for missing dogs. If we found them and no one picked them up, they could’ve been given up for adoption.”</p><p>“Sorry, we’re not locals,” Sherlock said, only half lying. “We’re staying at a friend’s house and he told us to wait. We planned to stop by an animal shelter tomorrow, anyway. Fortunately, our doggos showed up in the park!”</p><p>The man considered him, and then nodded. “Okay. Glad you’ve found them. Be more careful next time, misunderstandings happen, it wouldn’t be the first time someone lost their pets forever. And these woods are dangerous.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You know, the usual. The occasional mountain lion, wild boars. A couple folks saying there’s bigfoot in the forest, those telltales. Don’t believe that one, though. It’s just wild animals and people get skittish and blame their screams at nonexistent cryptids.”</p><p>“I’ll remember that.” </p><p>“Good. I’ll leave you to your pups, then. Have a nice day, sir.”</p><p>“You too!”</p><p>Once the man was gone, Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he was even holding. Wow, faking a whole American accent sure took his charade to a whole new level. But, turning his attention back to the big and small dog curled up against him (Grace shuffled closer to him while the man from Animal Control talked to Sherlock, probably sensing <em>stranger-danger</em>), Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way. Sure, he lied. But if all it cost was becoming the guardian of two lovely canines, then he cannot possibly be mad. And he won’t give them away, ever. </p><p>Although, that may be a harder feat to achieve -- he’ll have to convince Lestrade to take them in. And if he won’t agree outright, which he might, because Sherlock hasn’t seen him interact with domesticated animals much besides feigning off a junkie deer and then getting surprise-uno-reverse-scammed by a racoon, then Sherlock will wage psychological warfare on him. And he’ll get John and Irene on his side too. </p><p>Yes, that’s perfect. <em>Operation: REDBEARD</em> can thus begin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>PETS!! and soft Sherlock &lt;3 I don't know how realistic the Animal Control guy is by not asking for proof that the dogs are Sherly's, but we're taking creative license here for the sake of our plot~<br/>Next chapter someone new is gonna spice up the fic! Those familiar with Gravity Falls that recall episode with Waddles might have a hunch of what's coming &gt;:D hint is in the episode number!<br/>see you in 5!<br/>Also, EDIT: I realised just now that Irene and Sherlock refer to fries as fries, when in fact they should probably call them chips. I'll fix this in a bit, hopefully, apologies!</p><p>words: 6940<br/>updated: 10.4. 2021<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. Operation: REDBEARD II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there are time travellers</p><p>episode 10, chapter 2</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello~ <br/>let's see where the road takes us today<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and potatoes for tasting really good</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The funfair wasn’t as lame as it had originally seemed. True, it was no lunapark or circus (debatable -- the children running around making a general mess of things could count as such, and the attendants can be technically counted as clowns) but the food tasted nice and satiated Irene’s hunger. The salt in the chips overarched her own saltiness, however, and she needed to find water soon. Otherwise she’s going to end up drier than Spongebob Squarepants on a beach, though she wouldn’t mind being visited by Keanu Reeves and given enlightenment. </p><p>Irene scouted the food stalls and a couple exhibits on display. Children and their parents stood in lines for some rides, such as floating on a ‘river’ through a tunnel or jumping in a trampoline tent. There were at least three stalls where one could throw tennis balls at targets and win a plushie or other prize offered, but most people had terrible aim and either missed or fired the ball so rapidly it bounced off of the target’s surface and boinked back at the person who threw it, earning them a black eye or bruise on different body parts whose reflexes couldn’t register the oncoming assault as quickly. By the end of Irene’s observation round, she was sure that the funfair had forged documents in order to be even legally held. </p><p>The construction of some of the attractions? Fishy at best. Quite literally, there was a tank filled with fish of different kinds, and a guy sat on a bench above the water surface, taunting bystanders by yelling into a megaphone to try hit a lever that would send him swimming. No one was able to fulfill their revenge fantasy, unfortunately, and the guy laughed in their faces. But Irene believed that karma would be delivered sooner or later. </p><p>From a stall not too far over, Irene’s name got called by two familiar faces: Molly Hooper and Mike Stamford. Irene waved at them and jogged up to the pair to greet them properly, hugging her friends around the shoulders. </p><p>“How are you guys?” she asked them. “Where’s Violet?”</p><p>“Family reunion with her grandparents and cousins from Vietnam and Singapore,” Molly told her, sipping juice from a plastic cup through a steel straw. “Her mom is originally from Asia but moved here for college after she won a scholarship for her STEM program, and she met her dad at uni. Pretty sweet. She says hi, by the way.”</p><p>“Thanks! And what about you, Mike? Where’s the rest of Queen?”</p><p>Mike shrugged. “No idea. We came here in the mini, but the guys got lost somewhere near food. I’ll probably have to roll them back to the car.”</p><p>Irene laughed at the imagery. “Let’s hope not.”</p><p>“Have you seen the slurpee machine over there?”</p><p>“Ew, don’t remind me. I’m staying away from those until the end of time.”</p><p>“Why? What happened?” Molly looked from Irene to Mike, incomprehensive of the inside joke. Irene shot Mike an unsure glance. She hasn’t told her or Violet about her escapades with her brother and John. Mike seemed at loss for words too. </p><p>“Well, it’s a funny story, actually,” she gave Molly a toothy grin. “I downed two buckets-worth of slurpees in one night and then I hallucinated Biblical nonsense. And after that, Sherlock and John had to haul my arse back to the Shack and I proceeded to spend the next three hours in the bathroom. Would <em>not</em> recommend.”</p><p>Molly’s eyes widened as Irene spoke, and by the time she finished her face was a mixture of sympathy, curiosity, and suppressed laughter. What also didn’t escape Irene was the fact that Mike watched Molly’s face just as intently, and she saw that look before. Many times. Since the beginning of summer, truth be told. Oh, her matchmaking game has <em>just </em>begun.</p><p>“I don’t envy you the brain freeze you must’ve had,” Molly said, sipping more of her juice. Irene thirsted for some iced drink. Like apple juice drowning in ice cubes. Or should it be the other way around? </p><p>“Yeah, it sucked, but I lived. So what, you two? I didn’t know you were friends.”</p><p>“We were classmates through elementary and high school,” Mike explained, the tips of his ears going pink as he smiled at his sandal clad feet. “We’ve been friends for what, fifteen years?”</p><p>“Yep! Maybe even longer than that, but I don’t remember my kindergarten years,” Molly said wistfully. Oh, childhood friends? Even better!</p><p>“So you basically know everything about each other, huh?” Irene asked, their nods confirming her statement. Oh, <em>yes</em>! But first, she needs more data, as Sherlock would say. She did learn a trick or two from him. “Hey, Molly -- where did you get your drink? I had the saltiest chips ever and I don’t want to end up drying out. where can I buy something icy?”</p><p>“Oh, next to the fish guy!” She pointed in the aforementioned man’s general direction, leaning her elbow on Mike’s shoulder. He leaned in, the two of them synchronized after years of friendship. “But I need a refill, so I’ll get you one, okay?”</p><p>“Thanks! We’ll wait here.” Irene focused a steady, inconspicuous glare at Mike so he got the message. He caught on, watching Molly walk away. </p><p>“Can you get me --” Mike started, but Molly beat him to it. </p><p>“The fizzy blue soda, I know!”</p><p>“Thanks, Molls!” he shouted after her, smiling at her bouncy ponytail. </p><p>“So, Mike,” Irene began, clasping hand behind her back in a professional manner, “tell me more.”</p><p>Mike sighed. He kicked a pebble from under his sandal and looked at the blindingly bright summer sky. “Kate told me this would be coming.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Yeah, she said you’re a good matchmaker. You pushed John and Sherlock in the right direction, right?”</p><p>“I tried my best. Sherlock has a tendency to underestimate himself and is sometimes too blind a twat to see the <em>obvious</em>. Smartarse, but hey, it worked! I’m still salty that I got a brain freeze and missed the whole debacle, though.”</p><p>“It was pretty scary, to be honest,” Mike admitted, huffing a laugh. He rubbed his left arm to banish an itch, but Irene viewed it as a nervous tick. “But Sherlock got us out, and from what I know John asked him out that same night.”</p><p>“He did, and I lost twenty quid because of that. Damnit, Kate won our Johnlock Roulette.”</p><p>“You had a bet going on?”</p><p>“Yeah. I’m not even mad about it. I’m glad these idiots got it sorted out. But now onto something better: you and Molly!”</p><p>“Oh, uh. What do you want to know?”</p><p>There was the arm rub again. “Hm, let’s see. You’re childhood best friends. Why didn’t Molly and Violet tag along with us the other day?”</p><p>“That’s complicated,” Mike said, scratching his head. “You see, Violet and Molly are more of their own duo. But they also have strict parents. Well, Violet does. Molly lives with her grandma; her parents passed away ten years ago.”</p><p>“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”</p><p>“Yeah, it was a rough time. Her grandma sheltered her a little bit too much if I’m being honest. That’s why Molly can be a bit awkward in bigger groups. Her words, not mine. She’s sweet and very considerate, but if there are more dominant personalities present, she can be overruled by them and shut off. She’s been bullied in highschool too. Violet and I, and the other guys too, got a whiff of it at the right time, though.”</p><p>Irene had to take a moment to process the new information. “Jesus Christ,” she winced, the name of her slurpee nemesis being the first thing that could expertly express her emotions. “Molly? Bullied? But she’s… she’s literally the sweetest human ever!”</p><p>“I know!” Mike said fervently, looking as upset at the memory as Irene felt. “She became a lot quieter after that experience. Now that she’s in college she’s finding it a lot easier to interact with our peers, thankfully. And she studies what she likes, so.”</p><p>“What’s her major?”</p><p>“Forensic pathology. Her grandma is a veterinarian here, so she kinda practised on some dead animals. You know, skinning them, post mortem examinations, that sort of thing.”</p><p>“Aha,” Irene sniffed, pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Even hearing about it almost made her gag. “I guess the most important thing is that she enjoys it.”</p><p>Mike grinned. “Pretty morbid, I know. But that’s our Molly.”</p><p>“You called?” said the girl, scaring the ever living shit out of them. “Sorry. So, what about me?”</p><p>Irene took her drink from Molly, downing half of it immediately. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was until the rim of the translucent cup touched lips; she soaked up the sweet tasting lemonade like dry ground in a dessert. “Thank you, I needed this. Mike was just telling me about your major.”</p><p>“Cool! Some people find it morbid, but it’s not that bad,” Molly smiled shyly, tucking a stray strand of brunette hair behind her ear. Mike shifted weight from one him to another, making him stand closer to her. Irene winked at him, then finished her drink. Then it dawned on her.</p><p>“Oh shit!” she cursed. She forgot about Sherlock entirely! He was waiting for her to bring him a drink too! </p><p>“What’s wrong?” Mike asked.</p><p>“Nothing serious, I just need to go find Sherlock. Where do they sell water and sodas? There? Okay, good. Know what? Join us in the shades under the trees -- Sherlock snatched a good spot, we can chat there!”</p><p>Not waiting for definite answers, Irene rushed to where the supposed soda stall was. A woman in her thirties operated it, handing out drinks on request, all non alcoholic. Irene stood in the queue for a good five minutes before she could order. In the end she decided to buy two bottles of cooled mineral water and one more cup of the delicious lemonade Molly had brought her. She thanked the woman and deposited both bottles in the pockets of her shorts (she had to sew them on herself, stupid modern fashion still hasn’t comprehended that women want POCKETS in their clothes) while she held the cup in her left hand. </p><p>As she stepped back and turned, she clashed head-on with another person. The lemonade spilled over her left thigh and trickled down her skin in thin streams, wetting her socks and trainers. </p><p>“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the woman Irene crashed into apologised. Firms hands gripped her by the arms so that she wouldn’t trip or fall, the cup long forgotten and lying on the ground. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Irene managed, hissing at the sticky feeling of her skin. She certainly didn’t want to attract bugs or wasps or similar insects today. She needs to clean up. “Do you know where I could find napkins?”</p><p>“I saw some on a table near the toi tois over there,” the woman said, pointing to that direction. Irene hummed, patted the woman to say ‘<em>hey, shit happens</em>’ and went to fetch herself some clean paper napkins to wipe her leg. </p><p>The blue toi tois were obvious from the stench that carried itself across the whole east side of the park where the funfair took place. Ew, what did people eat these days? The wind changed its course as Irene approached at last, and blew elsewhere to stink up the place and lure poor souls with full bladders closer. And just like the woman had said, there was a table stationed nearby where a number of napkin piles and toilet paper was. She was glad to see a pitcher of water on the table as well, and she dipped in a hurdle of napkins to wipe off the stickiness. </p><p>Irene used up at least half the resources available to her until she was happy with the result and sure that no bug would bother her. She threw the used and wet papers into a bin next to the table that was already overflowing and full of trash by the time she came. A strange sound to her right made her glance that way, her forehead wrinkling as she set her eyes on a blue box next to the toi tois. At first she thought that it belonged to them, but upon further examination it became obvious that this was another kind of blue box. Definitely not a portable toilet. </p><p>She came closer, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the writing up front that proclaimed the blue box to be a ‘Police Public Call Box’. Huh, but those used to be common in Britain, long ago, and not in bloody America. What was it doing here? Was it another, less frequented attraction? No wonder if that was the case; the stench got even stronger up close. </p><p>Much to Irene’s surprise, the door of the police box opened then, and suddenly a man in a brown suit stepped out, his short hair a mess. He seemed not to have noticed Irene, and she used the opportunity to stare at him and take in as many details as she could. His outfit was… alright. Nothing spectacular, but it did suit him, no pun intended. The one bit of colour available was a red tie. And then the man spoke. In an English bloody accent. </p><p>“BLIMEY!” he exclaimed, scrunching up his nose, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. He sucked in a deep breath (Irene gagged) and let his face be bathed in the warm Oregon sunlight. “Never woulda thought I’d get to smell nature like THIS.”</p><p>Irene regarded the WCs nearby warily, questioning the man’s sanity. And his sense of smell. Random encounters like this made her realise how much she valued her madman of a brother. And modern, civilized toilets and bathrooms they had at the Shack. She eyed the man suspiciously, and when she got a good look at his face, she gasped. </p><p>“David Tennant?”</p><p>The stranger’s face tilted to watch her, alarmed, and his posture straightened. “Me?”</p><p>“Yes?” Irene said, taking a step closer. “Is that really you?”</p><p>The man looked around and started moonwalking to one of the portables, seeking retreat. “Absolutely not. I mean, I could be, but I think David is busy pretending not to be a demon while actually playing one who is married to an angel who is, coincidentally, pretending to be Michael Sheen who pretends he’s an ordinary human. Hold on, which year is this? Perhaps you don’t know yet.”</p><p>During his small speech, Irene backed him up (not really, he just made it that dramatic) and the man opened the doors on the portable toilet behind him and he stepped in, enclosing himself in there. Death by toi tois was a cruel way to exit this world. The audible sigh told Irene that he regretted all his life choices instantly, and yet he didn’t come out. </p><p>Irene held her breath as she came closer to the portables. She won’t leave him to suffocate in there for goodness’ sake. She knocked on the door. The man knocked back. Thinking it funny, Irene asked, “Who’s there?”</p><p>“Doctor,” was the muffled reply moments later. </p><p>“Doctor who?”</p><p>The smelly door opened and out stepped the man in a smart suit, gasping for air. “Exactyl.”</p><p>“Don’t you mean exactly?”</p><p>“No, that’s a word. Exactyl is more of a pain in my butt. That dino scientist has been driving me nuts.”</p><p><em>Definitely </em>crazy, Irene thought. Or was her lemonade actually a slurpee in disguise? Bloody hell, why is that weird shit keeps happening in this town? Is it cursed? Jinxed? Did a UFO crash here thousands of years ago and released some of its fuel in the soil and it created some sort of magical aura that hovers over Reichenbach Falls? Maybe a rift is going through it that disturbs the time and space continuum and causes anomalies. Or is it all of the above? It’s anyone’s guesswork. </p><p>“Do you need… help?” Irene offered, unsure of how to proceed. This lookalike of David Tennant didn’t look like he lost <em>all </em>his marbles, but how can she verify that? </p><p>The man considered Irene. He walked up to her, towering over her, the bloke being as tall as Sherlock. Maybe even taller by a trifle. “Now that you mention it -- I’m looking for my companion. Also an Englishwoman like you, this tall,” he held up a palm to indicate the height, slightly above Irene’s, “red hair, brow-length fringe, wearing dark jeans, blue-grey jumper…”</p><p>“I don’t think I’ve seen her,” Irene told the man. She’s been too busy cleaning herself up to give a damn about the funfair or other people attending. “But I can keep an eye out?”</p><p>“That’d be lovely! Just tell her to find me at ‘TARDIS,’” he quoted in the air, “and she’ll know where to go. I have to go have a look around now. Can you point me to where the City Hall is? Thank you.”</p><p>“Wait, what’s your companion’s name? And yours?” Irene called after the man when he departed for the City Hall. He turned around and walked backwards. </p><p>“Her name’s Donna Noble. Tell her that Doctor sent you, if you do stumble upon her sooner than me!”</p><p>And he was gone. </p><p>Shaking this random encounter out of her short-term memory for the time being, Irene shot the blue police box a last flying look before prompting her legs to take her back to Sherlock. She didn’t see Molly nor Mike on her short journey to the shade, so she figured they must’ve met up with the rest of their gang. She found Sherlock where she had left him -- but he was in the company of a presumably stray dog. </p><p>“Sherlock? What are you doing?” she shot the question at his back, which twisted as he turned his neck and torso to look at her. A tentative smile played on his lips. </p><p>“I made new friends!” he said, shifting on the ground to show her a red-coated puppy sleeping in his arms. </p><p><em>Oh my God there’s two of them</em>, Irene thought. Sherlock always had a soft spot for dogs, ever since childhood. Mummy never allowed pets, saying it would be too much work to take care of, no matter how much Sherlock begged or what he promised to do in turn. Not wanting to rain on his parade, though, Irene put up a facade. She doesn’t mind dogs, but she’s not as enthusiastic as her big brother is about the animals. </p><p>“They’re cute,” she told him, crouching to get a better look at the puppy. “Are they homeless?”</p><p>“Yes, I’d say so,” Sherlock said, scratching the bigger dog (it had mostly white coat with red splotches all over it) under its chin. “They have no collars or other means of identification on them, I checked. Perhaps they have microchips, but they’ve certainly been on the streets for a prolonged period of time. A guy from Animal Control almost took them, but I lied to him and said they’re my dogs. Well, mine and John’s. I said that we lost them on a hike and that we wanted to wait if they’d show up until the last two days of us visiting. It worked and the guy never questioned me. Idiot, but a good one.”</p><p>Irene gaped at Sherlock. “Are you kidding me? And what do you plan to do with them? Sherlock, you can’t keep them.” She struck a nerve. Her brother cuddled the puppy closer to his chest and caressed the second dog’s head with tender strokes of his curled fingers and knuckles. Teeth grazed Sherlock’s lower lip and he downcast his gaze to the ground. </p><p>“What else was I to do? Leave them and let them be taken? Irene, they were starving.”</p><p>“Stray dogs usually are. I’m not complaining about that -- what you did was good. But Animal Control would be able to find them homes quicker than us.”</p><p>“False. They’ll have a period during which they’d hold them against their will until someone called and reclaimed them. Which is not going to happen -- I estimate they have been on the streets for at least two months. We would have seen posters for missing dogs around the town, surely, if that were the case. But it isn’t!”</p><p>“Sherlock….”</p><p>He exhaled sharply through his nose, eyelids fluttering closed. “Irene, Animal Control can hold pets for only so long. They’d either be up for adoption after --”</p><p>“Which is totally fine and should be done.”</p><p>“-- but let’s be real, only puppies have the highest chances of adoption. Adult dogs like Grace have lesser chances of being taken into new homes, and you know what’s next? They euthanize them. Irene, I can’t let them be taken by Animal Control. Grace would be without her puppy and die alone and frightened.”</p><p>Oh no. He’s already named them. Brows furrowing, Irene reached out to pat Sherlock’s dirty knee. The puppy stirred awake and wagged its tail at the sight of her, undoubtedly thinking Irene a friend. Which she was, but she viewed the situation differently, less dramatically. Their owner could still be around. Maybe they live in a neighbouring town. Grace, the adult dog, sniffed at the puppy. <em>Her </em>puppy. So she was a mom. That made their homeless situation even more heartbreaking. </p><p>“How did you name the puppy?”</p><p>“Redbeard.”</p><p>Irene looked up at Sherlock, who continued caressing both dogs at once. Redbeard the puppy relished the touch, and Grace seemed at ease, too. When Sherlock met her gaze, the dogs did as well, as if synchronized, focusing puppy-eyed stares at her. Especially Sherlock, who reminded her of the time when he was eight years old and was told he can’t buy another toy pirate ship. But his blue-green eyes hid a lot more than just a memory of a pouty child. It was the look of a young adult who named a puppy after his brother whom he lost long ago who never came back. </p><p>Mycroft and Sherlock often used to play pirates when the former visited the Adler-Holmes family at their estate in England during summers. Mycroft was elected as the Captain, while Sherlock referred to himself as his best First Mate. Irene chose the role of the Queen of England and sent them on adventures to hunt treasures and wicked creatures of the night. This roughly translated into sweets and chocolates that Mycroft had bought with him from Canada or America (treasure hunts); he used to travel a lot. Sherlock had given Mycroft the pirate name of Redbeard, because one summer he came home sporting a stubble, and him being ginger made their pirate cosplays double endearing. </p><p>Thing was, Sherlock rarely mentioned Mycroft and everything related to him. He shut off for months on end when he’d disappeared, and he’d let go of his childhood dream of becoming a pirate when he grew up. He slowly opened up to Irene, trusting her enough to confide in her when he couldn’t deal with his thoughts alone. And she valued that above all. </p><p>And this made the connection between the puppy and Mycroft uplifting and sad simultaneously. Did it mean that, by giving the puppy the name of Redbeard, Sherlock allowed a suppressed part of himself to be brought to the surface again? Did it mean that he let himself be free of the past, letting go? Or is he merely clinging to it? Whatever the answer may be, Irene will let it simmer and see for herself. She’ll keep an eye out for her brother, in case he finds himself in a vulnerable position when recollection of memories strikes him at a yet unknown moment. </p><p>But this also meant that Sherlock forged an emotional bond with the puppy and the mother. He won’t give them up. He would if an owner showed up, but that seemed unlikely.</p><p>“But what about Greg?” Irene asked, letting Grace sniff her leg. John’s uncle is very lenient when it comes to their quirks, but there is a line somewhere, however far in the distance. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Sherlock said and Redbeard bit at his fingers with his tiny puppy teeth. He smiled at the tiny canine, but his expression sobered when he looked back at Irene. “I… I thought I could play a game of emotions on him. I mean, they’re a family of two. Grace is a single mother, do you realise how hard it is to raise a child out on the streets?”</p><p>Irene chuckled. “You’re taking it a bit too far, but yeah. I get your point. But Greg can still protest. What if he says they can’t stay at the Shack and he calls Animal Control or a local shelter?”</p><p>“I had a plan in mind.”</p><p>“I’m listening.”</p><p>“Well, a number of them, to be honest. Plan A involves us sneaking the dogs in the Shack.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Why ever not?”</p><p>“The dogs have to be let outside to pee and poop, Sherlock. And what about feeding them? They stink a great deal too, and Greg isn’t as thick as you think he is. Plus there’s Mrs Hudson; she knows every square inch of the house just like Greg. They’d notice something is amiss.”</p><p>“Fine. Plan B is employing you and John on the case.”</p><p>“Me and John?”</p><p>Sherlock grinned at her and massaged Redbeard’s cute floppy ears. Irene did the same for Grace, swirling her fingers in soothing circles. “Precisely. Well, if you want to. But I’d like you to help me. The more, the merrier, or whatever the colloquial phrase is, right? If we stand our ground, Lestrade will relent.”</p><p>“How do you know John would agree to your plan?” Irene challenged. </p><p>“He’s my boyfriend, of course he’s in,” Sherlock said, looking offended by the assumption John would dare not to be in the same boat as him. </p><p>“Okay, valid. But he may be allergic or not like dogs. Wait, no -- scratch that. He’s basically a golden retriever himself.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted. “Please. Let’s not classify ourselves into animals now. And he’d be Newfoundland.”</p><p>“Like Nanny from Peter Pan?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“We’ll have this discussion later, but fine. Does John even know? Is he aware that you harboured two strays under your wings?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Sherlock said, cheeks reddening. He ran his long fingers through his hair to comb it out of his line of sight. </p><p>Irene nodded, noting how dusty Grace’s coat was. She and Redbeard needed a proper bath. “You should call him and get him on the plan, see what he thinks.”</p><p>“Could you do it?”</p><p>“Why not you?”</p><p>“My phone’s over there,” he jerked his head to the table and benches where his smartphone lay. If he stretched his arm, he’d reach it. </p><p>Rolling her eyes, Irene stayed where she was and took out her own. She’s not going to bother. “You lazy slob. I’ll call him from mine.”</p><p>“Wait, one more thing,” Sherlock hurried to say. “Grace and Redbeard are probably thirsty. See how they stick their tongues out? For one, it serves them for cooling down since they don’t sweat like humans. I gave them my chips, but I’ve no clue when’s the last time they drank clear water. I don’t want them to be dehydrated.”</p><p>“I did buy us water! Here, it’s mineral, but I doubt Grace or Red will mind.”</p><p>“We forgot one essential thing.”</p><p>“What thing?”</p><p>“Where do we pour the water?”</p><p>Irene pouted thoughtfully, looking from the bottles in her hands to Sherlock’s. Grace sniffed at the plastic, licking around the neck of the bottle, desperate to get some moisture on her pink tongue. Irene told Sherlock to cusp his plate-like hands together while she poured a healthy amount in the crater and Grace stuck her head in, gulping it down. Sherlock giggled as Grace’s snout poked at his wrists. He was incredibly ticklish. Irene refilled the makeshift water fountain three more times, Redbeard repeating after his mom. </p><p>“Feels better, doesn’t it?” asked Irene, smiling at Grace who had tiny water droplets stuck on the fur under her chin. Sherlock wiped his hands on his jeans; they were dirty enough already for him to care about their state. Git, it’s not even like he’s going to wash them himself. </p><p>Irene stood up to go and bin the empty plastic bottles, catching Sherlock’s eye. The spark of joy in them was a confirmation that he had quite the attachment going on in relation to the dogs. It negated his statement from years ago when he promised himself never to get too close to anyone or anything after Mycroft’s disappearance. But Sherlock, like most, is not unfeeling -- quite the opposite, he feels too much; his relationship with John being a prime witness to that. And Irene would hold her side of her promise she’d made -- to see to it that Sherlock is happy. And if helping him take care of two cute stray dogs was on the list, why not? </p><p>As she walked back, she saw Mike shuffle towards their table, alone. Molly probably stayed behind to buy another lemonade or food. Mike’s sombre expression became evident upon him sitting down on the bench next to Irene, striking a sense of worry inside her. </p><p>“Hey guys,” he greeted, grunting as he sat down. The sweat under his armpits from the hot weather created maps of unknown lands on his green t-shirt. </p><p>“Stamford,” Sherlock nodded curtly, unbothered by his arrival. He could become uptight around acquaintances, but Mike seemed to have formed a sort of trustful bond with Sherlock. Quite uncharacteristic, but Irene was happy to see it there. Unacknowledged, but nonetheless present. </p><p>Sherlock paid attention to Redbeard, playing games with the puppy as Grace lied down and watched the boys fool around. She sniffed when Mike came by, but she sensed no threat in him and relaxed. Mike, on the other hand, had a glassy look about him, distant. </p><p>“Mike, are you alright? Where’s Molly?” she asked him, twisting on the bench so that she faced him. </p><p>Mike chuckled, a bitter sound to Irene’s ears. Sherlock started speaking in his puppy voice to Redbeard. “Let’s say an old friend showed up. And he asked Molly out.”</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>“Yeah. Neither of us saw it coming.”</p><p>“And Molly just… accepted? Just like that?”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>Irene touched her temple. “Bloody hell. Who is this guy?”</p><p>“Andrew West,” Mike said. “Typical jock, studies IT on a football scholarship. Molly tutored him over the summer, that’s the reason why they might have gotten closer, who knows?”</p><p>Irene opened her mouth to speak, somehow try to reassure Mike and console him, but a woman’s voice interrupted her. </p><p>“Excuse me, can I sit here? Other tables are packed,” she said in an English accent, but the three young adults barely noticed her. Irene mumbled something akin to ‘sure’ and the woman took her seat on the opposite bench, their back half turned to her. </p><p>“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mike,” Irene told the boy, patting him on the back. “But why would Molly go out with West when she’s here with you?”</p><p>Mike shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “I dunno. Maybe because he’s better looking? He’s this… this cool sports guy who jogs every day and eats spinach smoothies and protein bars. And then there’s me, a chubby guy who only knows how to drum and play video games and can distinguish the many kinds of pokémons.”</p><p>“To be fair,” Sherlock chirped up, “if I were somebody completely else, so, Molly, and single, which won’t happen because I have John, I’d find your skills intriguing. Music is better than running around a field chasing a ball. And please, Stamford, don’t underestimate yourself like this. It doesn’t serve anyone, least of all you.”</p><p>“Sherlock is right, though he’s the one to speak,” Irene agreed, ignoring Sherlock’s ‘<em>I’m right here, you know,</em>’. “Besides, you and Molly have a history together that built a strong foundation for you guys. What does she and Andrew West have in common?”</p><p>“Passion for football,” Mike mumbled.</p><p>“Molly likes football? I’m confused -- are we talking American football or soccer?”</p><p>“Uh, American football. Rugby. She gets really heated over the matches. Don’t bring up the Oregon Rugby League if you don’t want a powerpoint presentation on it. But I’d recommend it, Molly does nice presentations.”</p><p>“Nice doesn’t equal good,” Sherlock said, his tone daring them to challenge him. Irene sighed tiredly. She’s not going to engage him in this. </p><p>She touched Mike’s arm on the fabric of the t-shirt. Redbeard yawned. “Mike, did you plan to ask Molly out?”</p><p>Silence. Mike looked up at her, sadness evident on his face. “Yeah. But it doesn’t matter. We’re best friends, that’s enough.” He rose to his feet before Irene could offer any advice. “Thanks for hearing me out. I just… that damned West! Nevermind that now. If Molly’s happy, I’ll be too.”</p><p>“That’s a bit silly,” Sherlock noted as he taught Redbeard to sit on command. “But I understand your side of the sentimental struggle. I’m sorry, Stamford, for all it’s worth.”</p><p>“Thanks, I guess. I’ll go find Eddie and Billy. See you around, guys. Say hi to John from me, okay?”</p><p>“Duly noted.”</p><p>Irene watched Mike walk out into the sunny parade in the park. Poor guy. There had to be a way for them to end up together -- Mike and Molly. They were two halves of the same being, she saw it for what it was. Her senses proved to be right in the case of John and Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and Angelo. Third time’s a charm, and if she is correct in her assumption and succeeds in bringing them together, she’ll take it as a sign from the universe that matchmaking is the perfect career for her. </p><p>“I wish there was a way to rewind time,” she said, looking at Sherlock. </p><p>“Don’t look at me. The journal doesn’t contain information on time travel nor indicates anything of such nature,” he told her bluntly. </p><p>The woman behind them choked on her food and Irene swiftly turned on her butt to see if she’s alright. The first aid training she’d earned as a part of her scout experience and duty in Britain could pay off in case she needs a Heimlich. She waved Irene off in a gesture that said she’s going to live, but something about her made Irene inspect her closer. </p><p>She had long red hair and was wearing a purple top with short sleeves, a blue-grey jumper tied around her waist. A baseball cap sat atop the table, brand new. She was eating a burger, a cup filled with Loca-Cola by her elbows. And then it clicked.</p><p>“Donna?” Irene blurted out, making the woman freeze and frown mid-bite. “Donna Noble?”</p><p>“Yesh?” she answered carefully, squinting at her and Sherlock. She chewed slowly, then swallowed. “Who’s asking?”</p><p>“This bloke named Doctor. Saw him near the toi tois and he said he’s looking for his companion, Donna Noble and he gave me a description that fits you!”</p><p>Donna crumpled a paper napkin into a ball to clean her greasy fingers. “Did he say anything else?”</p><p>“Uhm…” Irene recalled their conversation from over half an hour ago. “I think he mentioned that you should meet him at this ‘TARDIS’.” She mimicked the Doctor’s air quotes. “He went to the City Hall.”</p><p>“That pillock!” Donna cursed, throwing the napkin in a bin. “I told him to wait for me! I was hungry, can you imagine what it is to travel so long and in between time and space?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Uhm… Know what? I have nothing better to do. I overheard your friend and his struggle, I must say I feel bad for him. It’s too hot for me to chase after the Doctor now, but I think I could help you and Mike.”</p><p>“And how is that?”</p><p>Donna looked over her shoulder in a very conspiratorial way. She leaned on her elbows and over the table, Irene mirroring her. Donna seemed to be having a mild internal struggle. “It’s going to sound unbelievable…”</p><p>“Not really,” Sherlock cut in, rising to his feet. Their hushed conversation over a half-consumed burger apparently interested him. “We’ve witnessed a lot of strange things in Reichenbach Falls. You hesitated after Irene rather rhetorically asked you about your exclamation over travelling between time and space.” Sherlock looked to Irene, as if hesitating himself. Her head gave a small nod, prompting him to continue. He hasn’t said anything offensive yet. Encouraged, Sherlock pressed on. “And now you offer your help, as unbelievable as it may sound, according to you. It’s a far stretch, but I learned not to underestimate any given circumstances. This could indicate you have information regarding something ordinary people may call you crazy for, but let me assure you that neither my step-sister nor I are ordinary. In fact, we’re intermediate mystery solvers. The question as roused by my suspicion is: <em>are </em>you a time traveler?”</p><p>Donna crossed her arms and leaned closer in. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Sherlock Holmes.” He motioned towards Irene. “Irene Adler. Step-siblings.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, fellow Brits,” Donna smiled, shaking their hands. She stood up, and her choice of clothing reminded Irene of the early 2000s. Huh, Mummy used to wear similar trousers back then. They weren’t that ‘in’ anymore. “I think it’d be better to show you than just tell you. Let’s go.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we'e putting the WHO is superWHOlock &gt;:D<br/>I love Donna</p><p>words: 6258<br/>updated: 15.4. 2021<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care and don't exit life because of toi tois,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. Operation: REDBEARD III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is TARDIS</p><p>episode 10, chapter 3</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WE'RE THERE WE'E THERE WHOOOOO(LOCK)<br/>OOOWEEEEOOOOOO<br/>enjoy the geeking out and lore!<br/>special thanks to bee (my DW conductor of light), dee, and TARDIS for being awesome</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Adler-Holmes siblings followed Donna back to the toi tois. They were joined by Grace and Redbeard, Donna and them making quick acquaintances. Grace stuck to Sherlock, jogging by his side, Redbeard at hers. Donna didn’t seem to mind the canines tagging along, but as they appeared near the death toilets and the blue police box, Grace stopped, sneezing. The stench pertained, elevated by the unyielding scorching sun above Reichenbach Falls. </p><p>“Grace? Let’s go,” Sherlock prompted, tapping his thigh. Grace stayed put, standing her ground. Redbeard looked from her to Sherlock, tongue out and tail wagging. Irene and Donna halted to see what they were doing. </p><p>“Seems like she hates the smell,” Donna said, scratching her nose. “Can’t blame her, these things are horrible. I don’t understand why TARDIS had to put us here of all places.”</p><p>“Grace, come on,” Sherlock tried, luring the dog forward. She didn’t budge. He tried to call Redbeard, but he stayed by his mom, his butt vibrating widely from side to side from how violently he flailed his tail about. It was the cutest thing Irene had seen. </p><p>“Maybe they’ll wait here?” Irene suggested. “Grace seems to trust you and she likes you.”</p><p>Sherlock bit on the inside of his cheek, making his cheekbone stand out more. His profile, half shaded and half illuminated by the warm sun rays caressing his pale complexion, looked like a sculpture’s. “But what if the Animal Control guy sees them without me? I won’t have them taken to a shelter.”</p><p>“It’ll be for just a bit. Besides, Grace isn’t coming nearer to the toi tois. You won’t convince her.”</p><p>Grace sat down, the grass under her wilted and yellowish. The toi tois probably poisoned the soil. Okay, that’s not how it works, but it sure seemed like it did. Disgusting portable toilets of doom. Sherlock got up from his crouch and sighed. </p><p>“Redbeard, will you stay with your mama?” The puppy whimpered a yes in his dog language. Sherlock, outnumbered by two quadrupedal creatures made of cuteness and fur, relented and went to pet his new friends before following Donna and Irene towards the police box. He shot glances back over his shoulder until Donna opened the blue door and Irene dragged him in by his white shirt collar. </p><p>Irene expected a lot of things. Actually, she expected… nothing in particular. All this took place over a short period of time and her fish brain was still catching up. The inside of TARDIS was… big, suffice to say. Much bigger than anything the size of a British police box from the twentieth century had any business being. When she tilted her head to see Sherlock’s reaction, she was glad to be the witness to his befuddlement and wonder. Donna smiled at them from where she leaned against a panel in the centre of… this thing. </p><p>“What <em>is </em>this place?” Irene asked no one in particular. Donna shared her sentiment, her smile breaking out into a grin that lightened up her whole face. She brushed her fringe out of her eyes. </p><p>“This is Doctor’s TARDIS. Bigger on the inside, ha?”</p><p>“Definitely,” Sherlock said, a manic look overtaking his face. His big hands grabbed Irene by the shoulders as he shook her with vigor. “Do you know what this could mean?”</p><p>“No? I don’t care?”</p><p>“Start up your lesbian brain and think!”</p><p>“No, it’s summer!”</p><p>“Guys, how about you take a look?” Donna interrupted their mutual strangling. They froze, necks snapping at the red haired woman who watched their sibling fight, highly amused. Sherlock was the first to let go, Irene going in the opposite direction as they circled the centremost console panel. It glowed turquoise. Lots of wires stuck out from it reaching to the ceiling like snakes and vines, buttons and levers bombarded the board everywhere, few under blacked out screens, some next to them. A thin see-through tube containing an unknown liquid trailed the length of the spacious room from floor to ceiling. But none of it looked too mechanic, it was in truth a mix of something that struck Irene as rather organic; old remains of an unrecognised civilization overgrown by time and… nature? </p><p>Sherlock’s face was enlightened by the turquoise light, and the gleam in his eyes reminded Irene that of a mad scientist. Donna observed them from the side, and the doors to TARDIS creaked open when a voice of the Doctor reached them.</p><p>“Donna! There you are, listen, we need to investigate this town further. I talked to the mayor and --”</p><p>“Now hold on a second,” Donna said over him. “Why did you rush off without me? We agreed to take a pee break and eat!”</p><p>“I didn’t realise that TARDIS took us <em>here</em>.”</p><p>“Which is?”</p><p>“Reichenbach Falls,” Sherlock said, announcing his and Irene’s presence from behind the luminescent panel. Irene waved at the Doctor, and Sherlock put on his best manners. “Hi. We’re spending our summer holiday here.”</p><p>The Doctor straightened his back from where he was slouching against his side of the console. He was as tall as Sherlock. Lanky tall gits. “We have visitors?”</p><p>“Yeah! Irene and Sherlock are siblings. Have you seen the two dogs outside?”</p><p>“The Irish Setters?”</p><p>“Yes. They’re theirs, but didn’t want to come in because of the toi tois. Which brings me to the question of why on Earth of all that is holy did TARDIS have to put us next to portable toilets?”</p><p>“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Doctor said, stuffing hands in his pockets. His gaze roamed over Irene and Sherlock, tongue darting out to a corner of his mouth. “Irene and Sherlock… What’s your last name?”</p><p>“Adler and Holmes, respectively,” Irene supplied, Sherlock humming next to her. His fascination hasn’t abated. If anything, it appeared to be growing exponentially. </p><p>“Ah…” The Doctor trailed off, scratching at his nose, turning on the balls of his feet to face Donna. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”</p><p>“Wait -- is your name really Doctor?” Sherlock asked, leaning his hip on the console panel. </p><p>Said Doctor whipped his head around, as if cluelessly. “Why, yes! Or Time Lord. Depends who you ask. I have many titles. I guess a few assigned me a name stimming from a profanity; I’m not everyone’s biggest hero.”</p><p>“Why ‘Doctor’?”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Fair enough. And what is…” Sherlock trailed off waving his arms around to gesticulate at the inside of TARDIS. “This?”</p><p>The Doctor grinned. “TARDIS. A spacecraft and a time machine, of sorts.”</p><p>“How does it work?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, here’s the thing,” Donna chimed in, leaning an elbow on the Doctor’s shoulder. His brows furrowed. “See, there was this boy, Mike? Yes, Mike.”</p><p>Irene jumped in to elaborate more on Donna’s insistent nod. The Doctor listened, albeit with raised eyebrows. “Mike and his childhood best friend Molly went to the funfair today and he planned to ask her out. They went to play one of those games where you have to hit bottles stacked up in a triangle to win a prize, but Mike’s ball bounced back and hit Molly in the eye and this old friend of hers, Andrew West, came by and swooped her from Mike to ‘chat’. And he asked her out. She used to tutor him and they are some level of friends, but nothing that compares to her memories with Mike. I think it’s unfair to let Mike be robbed of his opportunity to be happy. I’m a matchmaker, by the way, hello!”</p><p>“And I overheard them when I sat at their table in the park to eat,” Donna added. “I just… we started talking, and when Irene said that she wished for time to be rewound, I thought…” </p><p>“Ah, no, sorry. I see what you’re getting at, but that wouldn’t work,” the Doctor said, shrugging. He gave Irene a lopsided smile. </p><p>Donna gaped at him. “What do you mean ‘that wouldn’t work’? TARDIS takes us to the future <em>and</em> the past constantly! Surely a few minutes is nothing for her.”</p><p>“Shall I remind you that we’re not supposed to be here? We were supposed to go to the Napoleonic times, and we’re late!”</p><p>“As late as you can be to the early nineteenth century,” Donna rolled her eyes. “Why would TARDIS send us here, then?”</p><p>“I’m figuring it out,” the Doctor said. Then he turned his attention back to Sherlock and Irene. Sherlock’s look was calculating, undoubtedly assessing the duo in front of them. “You don’t seem too weirded out.”</p><p>“We’re mystery solvers,” Sherlock explained calmly. He tilted his head. “Kind of. I haven’t the journal with me right now, but Reichenbach Falls are fascinating. There are certain locations that hold more magical prowess than others. We’ve met pixies, a vengeful ghost…”</p><p>“Kleptomaniac racoons,” Irene added, smirking. </p><p>“A demonic impostor of Nicolas Cage.”</p><p>“That fucker reincarnated <em>twice</em> and into different figurine vessels.”</p><p>“And also new ghoul reincarnation of Freddie Mercury and talking mirrors.”</p><p>“Plus this dude Alex Hirsch who talked to beavers that have an ongoing war with the squirrel mafia. And there’s this junkie deer….”</p><p>“Wait, you two met Freddie Mercury?” Donna gasped, clasping her hands together. “Does he have his voice?”</p><p>“He does!” Sherlock confirmed, a smile tagging at the corners of his mouth. “He’s as talented as the real Freddie. He’s our friend.”</p><p>“Where does he perform?”</p><p>“Nowhere so far. The band’s just getting started,” Irene said, looking at the Doctor. He seemed unperturbed by the information they have just introduced to them that would grant them a free asylum entrance in general. </p><p>The Doctor seemed mildly impressed by the Alex Hirsch story, though. “Alex? King Awesome-Sauce? I knew he must have ended up in that chocolate abomination. Did it preserve him for all those years?”</p><p>“Yeah, how did you know?”</p><p>“I might have advised him against it,” the Doctor huffed. “Did he say anything else about the squirrel mafia?”</p><p>Sherlock glanced at Irene, eyebrow arched. “Uhm,” she tried to think back to that splendidly awful day when she and John had met Nicolas Cage again. “He did. He talked to the beavers and passed on his condolences after they took Nicolas Cage in the body of a wooden figurine to build a dam with him.”</p><p>“Ah, so the squirrel queen got the beaver king in the end.”</p><p>“Beaver-squirrel what?” Donna asked, her face a myriad of expressions that ranged from bewildered to confused to outraged to resigned to bewildered again. She looked at the console panel and then the ceiling. “TARDIS? Where in the bloody hell are we?”</p><p>“Just good ol’ Reichenbach Falls,” the Doctor assured her with a toothy smile. “Interesting. You’re quite the adventurers. I’m not surprised, you being… well, here.” The Doctor took a step to the side and started pacing around. “That doesn’t change things. TARDIS is no toy for matchmaking and the whims of <em>love</em>.”</p><p>“Oh, please,” Donna challenged, and Irene felt like she was witnessing a domestic for the third time today. “How hard can it be? All you ever do is smash buttons and pull levers and brakes to do these… these ‘wibbly wobbly time-y wimey’ shenanigans.”</p><p>As she was speaking, she turned to the console panel and started fidgeting with said buttons, levers, and brakes. That is, if such things could be incorporated in time machines and spacecrafts that travelled throughout galaxies. Apparently yes. </p><p>Sherlock leaned over Donna, observing what she was doing, taking in the mechanics like a dry sponge. Irene looked over her other shoulder, craning her neck, then giving up and just watching from the side. The Doctor rushed to them, reprimanding. </p><p>“Donna, you can’t play with the continuum and time like this -- not when TARDIS became systematically unresponsive for no reason!”</p><p>“She seems to be responding just fine,” Donna said, giving him a sweet smile, tapping a red button three times in a row to annoy him. And indeed TARDIS and the valve within the console started gurgling up, filling with the turquoise liquid, the inside walls of the spacecraft glimmering in the colour. </p><p>Donna hummed and walked around the console while telling Sherlock to hold a lever in position, which he fulfilled, the Doctor growing more and more agitated. Irene jumped in to push a button every five seconds as instructed by Donna, who talked as if she was discussing weather in London on a fine autumn day. </p><p>“It won’t work,” the Doctor told them airily, crossing his arms. </p><p>“Don’t be a spoilsport and hold this,” Donna ordered him and shoved him in the direction where she needed him. Sherlock and Irene exchanged smirks that showed how close to laughing they both were. </p><p>The Doctor looked around them, at TARDIS, Donna, the siblings, then back at Donna. Despite his disapproval, he stayed put. “We don’t know what will happen, what are you….” He watched as Donna tinkered with settings on the panel and a statistic in a foreign, probably extraterrestrial language displayed itself for them to see. Irene saw Sherlock nod at Donna, and they all began to do their respective parts, synchronized.</p><p>“Donna no!”</p><p>“Donna yes!” </p><p>~</p><p>John put on a poker face when Mrs Hudson swooned over petunias and orchids for the seventh time as they passed the garden section at the general store’s property. She and Greg had assured him it would be a quick job. Get in, find the target, pay if applicable, and get out. Mrs Hudson insisted on paying and pointedly glared at Greg so that he wouldn’t try to scam the owners.</p><p>“Relax, I’m just taking the piss,” he’d said in the car as he parked in the giant asphalt parking lot. Then he added, “Maybe,” when she had gotten out of the car first and John had lingered. At this point, he didn’t give a fuck. Pay or not, he wanted to find those stupid fucking boards and get the fuck back to the lame fucking funfair and kiss the shit out of Sherlock. He missed him, goddamnit!</p><p>And now, for the eight time that Mrs Hudson sniffed a purple orchid that reminded John of Sherlock and his irresistible eggplant coloured shirt, he sighed. Angrily. If one can do that. The upkeeper took no notice, instead complimenting whoever bred that fine flower to heaven and back. John’s left nostril twitched. Greg disappeared in the home depot building’s insides to get Mrs Hudson a new set of screwdrivers. John hovered near their trolley, his legs getting ants and itches from how slow things were moving, but he didn’t want to be rude. Not to Mrs Hudson. He would never. And so, he bit his tongue, crossed his arms, and emptied his mind and pined after Sherlock. </p><p>“What do you think of this one?” </p><p>John blinked in surprise. He looked around them and the empty outside of the local home-depot. Mrs Hudson has asked him a question and he’s been preoccupied thinking about his boyfriend. “It’s a nice flower pot; has a pretty shade of orange.”</p><p>“Like sunrise,” she agreed. She stood up from where she was kneeling, but as she was about to put the pot in their cart, she stumbled and the ceramic went flying, John rushing forth to catch it before the flowerpot broke into thousand pieces. </p><p>“Careful,” he huffed, holstering the item up and in the cart, noting the sunflower seeds. He assessed Mrs Hudson, who wrought her hands together. “You alright? No twisted ankle?”</p><p>“I’m not that old a hag, John,” she said, smiling wryly. “Give a woman some credit.”</p><p>So he did and thought about Sherlock again.</p><p>What was he doing right now? Was he thinking about John and wondering how fucking long it would fucking take them to take some fucking wooden boards for a fucking leak on the fucking roof? Okay, he’s overdoing it with the swearing, but his emotions are running high and he’d expected to make out with his boyfriend behind the cinema building like a hormone-crazed guy that he is for fuck’s sake. </p><p>Mrs Hudson deposited <em>another</em> flower pot, this time orange with sunflower seeds, in the cart. John wanted to whine. But he was no child. No, he’s a lovesick fucking pining guy who is twenty-one and going crazy after not being to see his boyfriend for half an hour. <em>A whole half an hour! That’s too much!</em> </p><p>Jesus fucking Christ he can’t take it.</p><p>“Mrs Hudson?” he said, voice strangled. “Can we go find the boards you need now?”</p><p>“Of course, dear,” she tutted, looking wistfully at the flowerbeds. John exhaled in relief, pushing the cart forward and to the right, where… Oh God fucking damnit. Flowers and trees and <em>water fountains and bird feeders</em> were displayed in this surreal looking scenery reminding John of some preposterous garden that rich people paid for to show off. Was this a fucking botanical garden? No! Very much not! Then why the fuck does home depot have this?! </p><p>“Ooh, John, isn’t this gorgeous?” </p><p>Something in John broke, his brain neurons catching on fire and a fever-like need to get the fuck out of here before he loses Mrs Hudson to cheap-fake-sales-cheap delirium of garden decorum. He put his arms on her shoulders and tactfully guided her to the other side of this succulent abomination of an area. </p><p>“No. Nope. No, never. We’re not doing this now, I’m sorry Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>“Oh dear, look at that fountain! It looks like an otter! Isn’t it adorable, John?” Mrs Hudson started succumbing to the delirium of a woman in her fifties who fell in love with shoddy goods at an Oregon home depot that wasn’t even a home depot but a shitty chain of unrelated bullshit: not good. </p><p>“It is,” John said, hurrying them with utmost care out of there, “but we need to find the boards. <em>Now</em>, please. Greg will  join us at any moment and who knows what Irene and Sherlock are doing without us.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson stopped and her hand shot up to her necklace. “You’re right! We shouldn’t lose more time. Goodness, John, why didn’t you say something sooner? Wasting time like this, tsk.”</p><p>John gaped at her as the upkeeper picked up their pace and pushed the cart out of this evil section of home depot. Honestly! But nevermind that, at least things were moving. <em>Finally</em>. As they passed a giant potted tree was propped up on a metallic table that was covered in dirt, fertilized soil, and bark chunks, one of the thin alloy legs gave out and sent the tree falling. Weren’t it for John’s fast reflexes, the tree would’ve squashed Mrs Hudson to the ground. He jumped between the upkeeper and the offensive overgrown plant and hissed as the twigs dug into his arms; it’ll leave minor scratches. He maneuvered the tree out of the pathway, huffing at its weight. </p><p>“John, are you alright? I swear, these people have to idea how to manage trees these days.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” John coughed, wiping sweat from his forehead. He should’ve put on a cap. “Can we go now? I’m getting sick of this place.”</p><p>“Likewise, let’s go.”</p><p>As they left the cursed territory, relief washed over John when he sighted their target: the boards. He had to keep up his leisurely pace, however, because Mrs Hudson’s bad hip started troubling her. He can survive that, just twenty minutes more, giver or take, and they’ll drive back to the funfair and he can drag Sherlock wherever he pleases. </p><p>John took out his phone to check the time. 15:03. Half an hour spent looking at flowers and getting attacked by potted trees. Great. Thankfully, the nightmare will end soon. He’ll just have to track Greg down if his grunkle doesn’t do that first. He put away his phone and took a deep breath. Mrs Hudson observed the palettes in front of them, judging the manufactures by their brand names. John rubbed the back of his neck and bared his face to the sky and the warm sun. He blinked once and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. When he looked back down, he realised that he was standing back at the flower display, Mrs Hudson handling that orange pot with sunflower seeds. What --</p><p>“What do you think of this one?” </p><p>John blinked in surprise. He looked around them and the empty outside of the local home depot. Did he just dream everything? Perhaps he’s so out of it from all the pining his mind came up with a solution or hallucination to pass time. Fucking <em>great</em>. </p><p>He jolted to attention when Mrs Hudson repeated the question. “Sorry. Too hot today. It’s a nice pot; has a pretty shade of orange.”</p><p>“Like sunrise,” the woman agreed. She stood up from where she was kneeling, but as she was about to put the pot in their cart, she stumbled and the ceramic went flying, John rushing forth to catch it before the flowerpot broke into hundreds of pieces. </p><p>“Careful,” he huffed, holstering the item up and in the cart, noting the sunflower seeds. Weird. It’s as if he’s lived through this, he freaking feels it. He assessed Mrs Hudson, who wrought her hands together. “You alright? No twisted ankle?”</p><p>“I’m not that old a hag, John,” she said, smiling wryly. “Give a woman some credit.”</p><p>Shaking off a feeling of uncertainty and faint deja vu, John closed his mouth, nodding. Who knows, maybe time travelers invaded the world and fucked shit up. He prayed to whoever listened to make this trip short. He needs to see Sherlock soon or he’ll go crazy.</p><p>~</p><p>Irene pushed the door of TARDIS open, only to wince and cough at the less than durable smell from the neighbouring toilets of cruel sensory death. Donna and a very exasperated Doctor trailed after them, the group of four running for fresh air good twenty meters away from the toi tois. </p><p>Sherlock was the first to speak. “Where’s Grace and Redbeard?”</p><p>Irene looked around, finding no trace of their canine friends. Sherlock’s face became an open book of expressions: blankness, panic, dear, confusion…. </p><p>“Wait, don’t panic,” Donna said, pointing at a clock on their right. “Look! The time’s moved back by half an hour!”</p><p>“That means I haven’t met Molly and Mike and you haven’t met Grace and Redbeard yet, either!” Irene exclaimed, happy that this crazy plan had worked out. She squealed and threw herself around Donna’s and Doctor’s necks, making them choke out strangled breaths. </p><p>“I’m just as surprised as you are,” the Doctor said, taking a step back. </p><p>“Don’t be, TARDIS has a way of getting us where we need to be,” Donna replied, waving a hand dismissively. </p><p>“True. The thing is, TARDIS is recharging.”</p><p>“What, like every once in a while in Cardiff?”</p><p>“Precisely. She shouldn’t be in state to achieve any form of travel, not yet. I have a theory, but we need to run. Let’s meet here in half an hour like fate had it, see how it goes with Mike.”</p><p>And the Doctor took off, Donna shooting them an apologising look before dashing after him. “We’ll see you in thirty minutes!”</p><p>“Unbelievable,” Sherlock told Irene as they walked the length between the toi toi corner and the rest of the funfair. “On the contrary, it is believable -- we’ve seen things much odder by proxy. But time travel? A Time Lord? I wonder what knowledge the other two journals contain. The Doctor has been to this town prior, it’s nothing new to him. How much does he know? Could he take us along to some adventures? I bet John would like that.”</p><p>His steps halted to a stop and he checked the time on his phone. “Let’s retrace our activities. We’ve bought chips and you a hot-dog. I gave mine to Grace, luring her and Redbeard closer to gain their trust. In the meantime you went to fetch us water, met Mike and Molly, and then came to the park. Given that we spent pointless minutes chit-chatting about why we need to keep the dogs, you should disperse your time more wisely.”</p><p>“How about I buy the water, still?” Irene suggested. She sniffed at her armpit, the musky smell building up. “It’s hot as hell, the dogs will need it. I’ll run here and then back to catch Mike before Andrew West ruins his chance.”</p><p>Sherlock fixed her a steady gaze, jerked his head up and down, and they parted ways. They bought the food, Irene stuffed her cheeks full of grilled meat-paste wiener and then dashed across the funfair, screams of children and attractions flowing past her sense of hearing as her vision tried to seek out two people in particular. </p><p>Molly called her name, and Irene tried to act natural as their first shared conversation of the day ensued and played out again: the greeting, inquiring about Violet, questions about Molly and Mike’s friendship, the sneaky looks Mike cast in Molly’s direction, the bullying talk once said girl hurried to bring them drinks…. </p><p>Irene bid them goodbye at last, making her way to the water stall. She didn’t spot neither Donna nor the Doctor. She checked her phone clock. Ten minutes left until the meeting. She ran at supersonic speed back to the park and under the blossoming trees where Sherlock had already made friends with Grace and Redbeard. Irene put the cooled bottled water next to him and raced back to the centre of the funfair. </p><p>She found Mike and Molly effortlessly, the two of them standing at a stall that had giant stuffed hybrid unicorn-crocodile-bears hung up. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, laughing. Oh, adorable twats. They have no idea that a train called Irene Adler is about to hit them harder than that slap Hermione gave Malfoy in the prisoner of Azkaban. She debated whether to announce herself, just in case it ruined the mood and Mike wouldn’t ask, but he can pop the question after he wins Molly over by getting her the abominably cute creature, no?</p><p>“Hey guys,” Irene announced herself. Molly looked over her shoulder and grinned. </p><p>“Hi! Wanna join us?”</p><p>Irene hummed an affirmation and stood by Mike’s side. “So, what’s on today?”</p><p>“I’m going to blast off those bottles and win Molly a bear,” Mike said, cracking his knuckles. A determined glimmer flicked across his face, such that spoke of utter confidence. It made sense to see Mike so devastated later in the park. Damn. </p><p>“Have at thee, then,” Irene prompted, and Mike took a baseball from the stall owner, a forty-something bloke with receding hairline and beer belly. He disappeared on the side to allow Mike a full view of the bottle-pyramids constructed for customers to aim at. </p><p>“You only have <em>one </em>chance,” the man said.</p><p>“Cool.” Mike readjusted his stance, Molly and Irene both leaning backwards to give him more space. <em>Okay Mike, second chance -- don’t mess this up,</em> Irene willed him mentally. Mike toyed with the ball before muttering, “And a one, and a two, and a… three!”</p><p>Mike hit the bottle-pyramid in a single <em>swoosh</em> of his swing, the girls cheering at his victory, but the mirth was short-lived. The ball flew further in the stalls and behind the tackled bottles that now littered the ground, bouncing off of a box propped in the back, firing back to where Molly stood, clueless of what was coming. The ball hit her square in the face -- well, the outer edge of her eye socket, forceful enough to leave a bruise in its wake. </p><p>“Agh! My eye!” Molly keened, hands flying up to cover the injured part of her face. </p><p><em>What?</em> Irene watched, horrified by how fast this went to shit. Mike blurted out apologies, but Molly shushed him, rightfully pointing out it’s not his fault, and she looked up. </p><p>“Does it look swollen?”</p><p>“Uh,” Mike glanced at Irene for help, whose shoulder raised a fraction, and then a bloke as tall as Mike strode by. Andrew West. </p><p>He’d barely pass for Sherlock’s type. Sure, he was muscular in all the right places, but he lacked the gracefulness that John, for example, carried himself around with. His clothes left a lot to be desired, his personal style opting for mundane sports items he draped over his body. He had shorts that were too big for him and made his legs look like sticks even if they were strong from participating in rugby, a washed out t-shirt in an awful sickly green shade, and <em>socks in sandals</em>. Irene’s inner fashion police fainted at the sight of him and she had to blink to regain her composure. </p><p>“Oh, hey Andy!” Molly greeted the fashion boogeyman, the boy holding up an ice pack he’d procured elsewhere to her injured socket. Mike froze, hands limp at his sides. </p><p>“You okay?” Andrew asked, a concerned furrow deepening his bushy eyebrows. Molly nodded, corners of her mouth lifting, but then she winced when her cheeks moved upwards and pressed on the assaulted area. “Good thing I have this ice pack with me. Hey, how about we sit down for a while? We haven’t talked in ages. How are you doing?”</p><p>Andrew cast a disapproving glance at Mike, repositioning Molly to guide her somewhere they could sit down. Irene’s jaw dropped. What the fuck? This smooth motherfucker…. No. No, never, she won’t let this slide. Not on her majestic matchmaker watch. Mike hasn’t even mentioned this! Or did this happen because the rewind? Irene had no idea how time shenanigans worked, or how they impacted it all. </p><p>Mike next to her resembled a marble statue, feet pinned to the ground from shock, arms and posture slack. His head hung lower, discouraged. Irene was at loss for words. Should she console him? Her phone buzzed -- her alarm. Two minutes until her meeting with Donna and the Doctor. Oh! They can rewind again, for sure! Out of the corner of her eye, she registered Mike turning on the balls of his feet, but by the time he did, she was gone. Or rather, she was sprinting as fast as her legs allowed in the hellish heat, avoiding crashing into people as best she could. </p><p>Sherlock was already waiting, Grace and Redbeard sitting at great length from the stinky death tois. Her brother must’ve deduced what had happened from her unhappy frown. “Ah. Same result.”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” Irene cursed, falling to her knees. She hated running. Especially in July. Fuck running in July and August. Fuck running in summer in general. “Mike’s a good shot, but the ball bounced off a crate and back at Molly. Then this fuckboy West comes by like a knight in shining armour on a white horse and has an <em>ice pack</em>. Where did he get it? We need to rewind.”</p><p>“Hm. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>Irene’s eyebrow jumped in her hairline. “Huh? Sure? Aren’t you going to lecture me on the importance of keeping science-y stuff as it is so as not to mess with time continuum or similar crap?”</p><p>“Well,” Sherlock’s gaze travelled to the two dogs lying in his shadow, panting, “I would, but I have to say that I’m quite taken with the idea of reliving the process of making friends with Grace and Redbeard.”</p><p>“You’re a romantic at heart, admit it, Holmes.” Irene relished the blush that appeared in blotches on Sherlock’s pale cheeks. “Ha! It’s cute.”</p><p>“I’m not cute.”</p><p>“Liar.”</p><p>They stuck out tongues at each other, acting very mature for their age, as they should. Donna and the Doctor’s arrival was foretold by the heaving gasps of both; the summer weather did neither of them good. </p><p>“How’d it go with Mike?” Donna inquired after her breath had measured out. </p><p>Irene explained what went down, her empathy growing bigger for Mike’s situation. Poor guy. His best friend was swooped from him <em>just like that</em>. “Can we go back? I need to… somehow ensure Mike doesn’t accidentally send the baseball crashing back at Molly.”</p><p>She was speaking to the Doctor by then, pleading him by her desperate look, hands clasped together. The Doctor rocked back on his feet and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. Donna elbowed him to reply. He sighed. “It turns out we can. I’ll explain in TARDIS. Follow me, please.”</p><p>Three pairs of feet walked behind the Doctor until the blue door of his spacecraft creaked shut. Grace and Redbeard, as expected and lived through, stayed outside. The Doctor immediately started pacing up and down the interior. Sherlock watched him intently. </p><p>“As you may remember, I mentioned that TARDIS has stopped here without our intention. She stops in Cardiff on occasion to recharge. Her energy’s been on the lower side recently, so I anticipated she’d take us there sooner or later. You see, there’s a Rift that cuts through the area, and that’s where TARDIS gets her power from when she needs it. I have a theory --”</p><p>“Which is that a similar Rift is woven through Reichenbach Falls,” Sherlock finished, a satisfied smirk tilting his lips upward when the Doctor excitedly agreed. Sherlock, akin to the Doctor, paced up and down the length of TARDIS, while Donna and Irene scooted closer together, exchanging a look that plainly said, ‘<em>Oh God, there’s two of them.</em>’ </p><p>“Yes! Precisely. What’s more, certain anomalies keep resurfacing over the years.”</p><p>“The supernatural activity is <em>astounding</em>. It leaves a lot to the imagination in regards to its origins. What does the Rift do overall? What’s its impact on the environment?”</p><p>The Doctor crossed his arms, then compulsively uncrossed them and scratched his head. Donna took popcorn out of somewhere and nudged Irene to eat. “Cardiff serves as a veil or a portal, if you will. It allows spacecraft coming through to be regulated by Torchwood, usually. Extraterrestrials can cross to Earth and back.”</p><p>“Are there any rankings which can help determine what Rift we’re dealing with?” Sherlock asked and Irene groaned. Donna grunted in sympathy. </p><p>“None that I know of per se. It greatly depends on the size of the Rift, what allows it to grow, et cetera. Time and space can be altered using less precision or technique in places where the Rifts are. TARDIS has taken me here decades ago, and no Rift has been detectable then.”</p><p>Sherlock halted. So did the Doctor. Forefingers tapping against their chins, their eyes locked and both men nodded slowly. Irene was utterly lost. Donna munched on days-old popcorn. Then the two geeks said, ‘<em>Aaah!</em>’ and a mutual understanding passed between them.</p><p>“Sorry, care to explain what’s going on?” Irene asked, throwing popcorn at Sherlock. </p><p>“Don’t you get it?” Sherlock said, excitement making his limbs vibrate with energy. </p><p>“No? It’s too hot to think?”</p><p>“I agree,” Donna added, “but let me guess. If the Rift has developed, does that mean that something has influenced its growth and power?”</p><p>“Yes, excellent, Donna!” the Doctor shouted, rubbing his hands together. “Curious, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything like this before.”</p><p>“Okay,” Irene massaged her temples in slow circles. Goddamn science. “But how does it relate to time travel?”</p><p>The Doctor leaned his hip on the yellowish console panel. His short brown hair was ruffled and stuck up at odd angles as he ran a hand through it. “TARDIS doesn’t let herself be handled until her energy restores,” he explained. “It’s like filling up your car’s tank, in a way. She feeds off the Rift. Timey wimey stuff and all that. But the Rift here in Reichenbach Falls makes her more pliant. I think she sensed your call and distress over your friend’s situation and decided to help you. Something about this town makes it possible for TARDIS to create a loop and rewind in the smallest amounts.”</p><p>“You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty cool,” Donna said, showing Sherlock the popcorn, but he declined by shaking his head, curls flying from side to side. </p><p>“It is, but why would TARDIS help me? Us?” Irene asked, still confused that an apparently sentient time machine had the need to matchmake with her. </p><p>Donna shrugged. “She does that when she feels like it.”</p><p>“She always takes us where we need to be,” the Doctor answered cryptically. </p><p>Alright, fine. Legit, whatever. Maybe it is a sign from the universe. But before her thoughts settled, the Doctor clasped his hands together and he walked over to the other side of the console. “Come on, then. We’ll rewind. It didn’t prove detrimental -- quite opposite. While Irene and Sherlock go about their business, you and I, Donna, will try to find out what caused the Rift to blossom.”</p><p>“Sounds good to me,” Donna said, mouth full, putting the popcorn box on a worn-out greyish seat. </p><p><em>Let’s hope that it works this time</em>, Irene told herself, stepping closer to the console to claim her place as they rewound. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>do you feel that?<br/>*Sam Winchester heavy breathing* LORE!<br/>my description of the inner TARDIS panel might not bethe most accurate, for I worked with google images mostly, so please forgive any mistakes you see there, or feel free to tell me what to improve on that front :D<br/>that said, I hope you liked this chapter!</p><p>words: 6548<br/>updated: 20.4. 2021<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. Operation: REDBEARD IV.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is 4+1 attempts</p>
<p>episode 10, chapter 4</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>more time travel!<br/>and bits of lore, heheh<br/>enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and ma hoodie that makes me look like a witch</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Operation: REDBEARD, as Sherlock had initially called his primary goal of bestowing doggy cuteness onto Lestrade and John shall they not like the idea of keeping them, he outstretched it to the rest of Irene’s own attempts at matchmaking. He had no qualms about it, and the science geek-out he had with the Doctor? Finally there’s someone he acquainted that isn’t an idiot! The man’s demeanor and manners remained clear to Sherlock’s small deductions, but yet also strangely contained. He couldn’t read the man beyond his mood (mostly calm and cheerful) which was frustrating to say the least, but what can you expect from a time traveller? His companion, Donna, was more of an open book (fierce, loyal, similarly cheerful if it correlated with her morals, patient) and also didn’t pose as an idiot, much to Sherlock’s delight. Or maybe it was his perception of them since they revealed themselves as time travellers. </p>
<p>In addition to his improved mood by this spectacular development in the lore of Reichenbach Falls, he got to relive his second happiest memory twice in a row! The first one was, obviously, conquered by a number of fragments concerning John: namely those when he’d asked Sherlock out on a date, when he’d patiently reassured that he did want to pursue him and have a date, and when they’d kissed in the rain. Irene might have a point. Perhaps he <em>is</em> a romantic. Hopeless, in fact. But can she blame him? He’s gone on John, forever and ever. </p>
<p>Now that he’s relived his acquaintanceship with Grace and Redbeard thrice and fended off the Animal Control guy just as many times, he felt content. And also more attached to his new furry friends. They’re a good girl and a good boy. Sherlock loved them. John will too. And Lestrade hopefully isn’t heartless to leave a single mother out on the streets. </p>
<p>After Grace and Redbeard ate their share of fries, Sherlock repeated his careful step-by-step protocol for petting the mother until she gave in on her own. Then, having found out he has ten minutes to spare, he took out his phone and took pictures of the doggos. Redbeard liked to try out his puppy teeth by gnawing on Sherlock’s skinny fingers, which he didn’t mind. It tickled, but it wasn’t hurtful. The puppy could be nervous from the adult teeth growing out of his gums that would replace the baby set he has now. Sherlock even captured a selfie where Redbeard licked at his face, pink tongue midway out to taste at Sherlock’s sweat. Absolutely adorable. John will <em>definitely </em>like them. </p>
<p>Three minutes left until their meeting, Sherlock herded his silent companions to come hither. This time around, Redbeard had gotten tired halfway there, so Sherlock picked him up, the puppy enjoying the free ride. <em>Oh, look! I’m floating!</em> he wagged his tail, and Sherlock imagined what may be going on in that small head of his.</p>
<p>Irene stood there already, tapping her foot. Donna and Doctor came sooner than before. “So?” </p>
<p>“I made Mike switch hands before he claimed his throw,” Irene started, “you know, in case his other limb is cursed. But it happened <em>again!</em> Hit the bottles, victory cry, crate, bam! Black eye! And sodding Andrew West to come to the rescue….”</p>
<p>“Aha. I’m sorry to hear that.” Sherlock looked to the time travellers as Irene steamed. “Anything new?”</p>
<p>“Nothing worth talking about,” the Doctor shook his head. Sherlock raked his eyes over the man’s figure -- he had good, if old-fashioned taste in his suits. Nothing that Sherlock would strictly associate with time travel, but it did fit his aesthetic. That man? He had style. </p>
<p>Donna jerked her chin at TARDIS. “Do we rewind once more? Third time’s a charm.”</p>
<p>And rewind they did. Irene stormed out first, determined to matchmake heaven and hell to perfection if it’s the last thing she does. Donna and Doctor power walked towards the City Hall, and Sherlock strolled to the park, and he’d even skip like Red Riding Hood if he were alone. A thought passed his mind -- how was John doing? Sherlock debated sending him the selfie, but dismissed the idea entirely. It will work better if it’s a surprise. </p>
<p>The next time Sherlock and the rest met up, Irene seemed to be losing her marbles. And hair. </p>
<p>“I made Molly and Mike switch places this time,” she said. “Because FUCK THIS, it’s impossible!”</p>
<p>The Doctor merely lifted his eyebrows at the profanity, and Donna nodded in appreciation. “What if it’s…. I don’t know, a fixed point in time?”</p>
<p>“It’s a possibility,” the Doctor replied, squinting up at the sky. At Sherlock’s and Irene’s question to elaborate, he said, “A fixed point in time cannot be altered by any means. History of such a capsule is immovable by any force. There’s very little room for exceptions, if at all.”</p>
<p>“So what, you’re saying my trying is for nothing?” Irene looked at them affronted. She looked to Sherlock for comfort, but he had no idea what to say or do to make her… feel better? In his opinion, she’s got too tightly wound up in her perception of her earthly duty. And while Sherlock did see her logic -- because let’s face it, Irene has a knack for sniffing out compatible personal relationships if they’re not three pixies masked in a goth costume and a trench coat -- he doesn’t necessarily agree with her way of executing her plans. Some things probably need more time to develop. She didn’t push it this far when he and John were taking their sweet time, but yes, he did see her frustration. If Stamford and Molly were childhood best friends, then it posed to be quite troublesome. </p>
<p>“What happened during this rewind?” Sherlock asked, scratching Redbeard’s ears as he cradled him to his chest. </p>
<p>Irene heaved a suffering sigh. “I switched them up. I was sneaky about it. Mike threw the ball, it hit the crate on which the bottles were propped on, bounced up at the stuffed bear mutant, down at the stall owner, crate, and Molly <em>again</em>. I can’t believe our luck!”</p>
<p>“Well, fourth time could be the lost charm,” the Doctor suggested feebly. Irene squared her shoulders and marched inside TARDIS, the rest at her heels. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Alright, fuck this. Either he was going delirious or he became a part of some hallucinating phenomenon he had no clue existed. Fuck. Three times. THREE that John had returned to that stupid fucking flower parade bullshit where Mrs Hudson picked out that (actually very pretty) stupid fucking flowerpot and sunflower seeds. </p>
<p>And on each occasion he and the upkeeper had inched closer to getting the imbecilic, hateful, absolutely fucking ridiculous and incredibly furious wooden boards, John had blinked a second at a time only <em>to be returned back to square one. How? Why?! </em></p>
<p>Heat stroke. It must be a heat stroke. John had passed out on the hot stone pavement, he was sure of it. And now he was stuck in a loop reliving his worst pining nightmare of the day. Mrs Hudson and Greg were probably pouring water on him at this moment, trying their best to rouse him. Hell, maybe he was in a hospital already. Was Sherlock there, too? Fuck this. At least he’ll get a pity cuddle out of it. </p>
<p>As if on cue, Mrs Hudson and him turned right to the fucking obnoxious garden section. John just slouched and pushed forward, growing tired of home depot and anything even remotely related to it. He stopped their cart before Mrs Hudson had a chance to get in the line of the idiotic fucked up weak-ass poor excuse of a fucking tree and John hauled it on the ground. His face was a mix of emptiness, hatred, lovesickness, and murder. He had an undeniable need to yell at plants and succulents. And water fountains. But not the otter one, that cute guy reminded him of Sherlock. </p>
<p>He barely heard Mrs Hudson tut at him for his reflexes, his social battery quickly running out of its short reserves. And sure enough, as soon as they stopped by the boards, he closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, and then he was back at the beginning. </p>
<p>FUCK THIS BULLSHIT.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Irene hovered behind the pair of best friends. Mike swung his arm back and forth as a warmup before he executed his next step. Molly gave Mike a thumbs up, but Irene put her palms on both their shoulders before the inevitable played out. </p>
<p>“Molly?” she asked, forcing a smile. “How much do you… want that stuffed animal thingy?”</p>
<p>Molly clenched her fists and cast Irene a serious, determined look. “More than anything in the world, Irene!”</p>
<p>“Ah…. Okay!”</p>
<p>Mike threw the baseball again. To everyone’s surprise except Irene’s pissed off attitude, the ball bounced off the edge of the crate and hit a net where at least fifty baseballs were stashed -- and the net tore, releasing a round hell of boinky motherfuckers upon Molly, who yelled and ducked, but her eye got the trademark bruise nonetheless. </p>
<p>Irene deadpanned and glanced at an undetermined point somewhere on the side, pretending to be on The Office. </p>
<p>Cue in Mr West in his stupid sock sandals carrying an ice pack. Mike is devastated. Molly is clueless. Irene is <em>angry</em>. She stormed out of there, a cloud of dust in her wake. Something is cursed. It must be, how else could this continue to be so wrong each and every do-over? Or maybe it really is a fixed point in time…. </p>
<p>No. She will not give up yet. The Doctor’s bound to have some solution. </p>
<p>She ushered her time traveller party back in TARDIS without explaining what went awry this time around, the blue door shutting by itself behind her. She took a deep breath, leaning against the firm metal as she collected her thoughts. “Have you discovered anything new?”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately not,” the Doctor and Donna said in unison. They exchanged a look. The Doctor spoke up. “Your town’s bigger than I’ve anticipated. There’s more than meets the eye, and a large number of anomalies have formed in places that are intertwined on an energetic level. I can’t rule out any of them, at least not right now while the Rift is still harbouring power from multiple sources.”</p>
<p>“Is there a way to tell what could be the original source?” Sherlock asked, watching the Doctor crouch and open a compartment in the floor. He started taking out strange techs and gizmos that he handed to Donna, passed them on to Irene and she passed them down to Sherlock. </p>
<p>“Not any that I can spare,” the Doctor replied, huffing as he reached deeper in the compartment to fish out a tiny black screen that resembled an early prototype of the first iPhone. He lifted it to his ear and tapped the surface. Nothing. Sherlock kneeled to inspect the other junk he got his hands on. </p>
<p>There was a metallic ball whose surface was covered in miniature spikes, a trumpet that certainly wasn’t a trumpet, a rubber duck that had angry eyebrows drawn on it, and a pair of dog collars. The Doctor sat down on the floor and fished a strange device from his inner suit pockets. </p>
<p>“What is that?” Irene pointed at the thing.</p>
<p>“My sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor said, showing it to the rest of them. “Convenient. Let me see if it fixes the monitor.”</p>
<p>He clicked the sonic screwdriver into function and it prolonged, springing to life via some scientific shenanigans. Irene’s brain melted at the mere thought of having to listen to an explanation she sensed Sherlock was itching to ask for, but he was restraining himself. She just wanted to matchmake Mike and go to the Shack and sleep this off. Time travel was taking its toll, and her period wasn’t making this easier.</p>
<p>Much to the Doctor’s dismay, the iPhone in his hand vibrated, but released an unhappy, suffering sigh and something popped inside its case. The Doctor threw it over his shoulder. “That’s a no, then. Should’ve known I got scammed by that London amphibian smuggler.”</p>
<p>“I told you so,” Donna said, a whiff of satisfaction playing on her lips. She patted Irene on the back. “How did it go?”</p>
<p>Irene recounted their third attempt at reversing the future past. She looked to the three of them for support. “Isn’t there anything you can do? Like, I don’t know -- a mathematical equation that solves Mike’s inability to avoid hitting Molly? Or one that prevents Andrew West from approaching them?”</p>
<p>Donna and the Doctor raised eyebrows at one another, but nodded. Sherlock shot up to standing to see how he can help. What followed was a flurry of motion as the Doctor drew out a large see-through glass board while Donna fetched markers they could write with, handing one to Sherlock and the Doctor. Irene took a seat behind them, letting exhaustion weaken her legs as the back of her knees hit the cushion. </p>
<p>She let her mind wander as she passively observed the three timey wimey gits try to come up with a solution to her dilemma. The murmured and whispered and then exclaimed nonsense Irene didn’t quite catch nor did she understand it. Math, physics, or anything even remotely scientific wasn’t her cup of tea. Secondary school through sixth form science classes had been a nightmare for her. Sherlock excelled in them and often tutored her before major tests neared their deadline, but she never inclined towards any of these subjects. Even simple terms like ‘mathematics’ made her dizzy and her brain shut off and changed to autopilot to endure such conversations. She just… couldn’t attune herself to this. </p>
<p>That’s why she almost collapsed when her vision sharpened and focused back on the time geeks, who procured a wall of letters and numbers in incomprehensible lines of modern hieroglyphics and <em>bullshit</em>. </p>
<p>“And if we account for the wind speed and Donna drinks cotton candy….”</p>
<p>“I’m <em>not</em> drinking liquid sugar,” Donna warned the Doctor, scribbling out the letter ‘v’ in those pointy brackets. Sherlock tapped his marker against his cheek. </p>
<p>Suddenly, the Doctor shouted with unwarranted energy, “WELL, I think I know what’s the problem.”</p>
<p>“Which is?” Irene asked, hearing the tiredness in her voice. </p>
<p>The Doctor nodded at Donna to explain. Obviously, she was well versed in some of the shenanigans by now, or at least she paid attention when Irene’s span gave out. </p>
<p>“Long story short, you’re fated to have a bad day when it comes to matchmaking Stamford and Molly,” Sherlock said before her, and she shushed him.</p>
<p>“Stand in line, Sherlock,” Donna waved him off and took a seat next to Irene. She used her marker as a pointer and the Doctor mimicked her flicks and movements to draw her eyes to blurry spots on the glass. “So, first we calculated the….” Irene’s hearing must be allergic to science. She just couldn’t comprehend whatever it was that Donna talked about with the Doctor’s occasional in-depth remark. “Then we considered the wind speed and the melting point of cotton candy….” Instead, Irene heard ‘wind speed, hot sugar, bla bla science bla, aha’ but nodded affirmatively when Donna paused to take a breath to show she wasn’t <em>that </em>out of it. “TARDIS and the Rift could account for….” Oh wow, only now did Irene notice that the markers were blue. Huh. The same shade of blue as the police box. Nice touch, TARDIS. “Which brought Sherlock to the conclusion that….” Sherlock circled the board, looking at the combined chicken scratches from behind. </p>
<p>The Doctor finished Donna’s lesson. “And as such, we proved this to be a fixed point in time.”</p>
<p>That woke Irene up like a brisk slap. “What? No exception?”</p>
<p>“None.”</p>
<p>“At all?”</p>
<p>“No. I’m sorry. I can see you care for your friends. But not everything should be tampered with. Time paradoxes work as they please, so it’s better to avoid them if applicable.”</p>
<p>Sherlock spoke next. “It’s as I said. You’re fated not to meddle with Stamford’s heartbreak, and I’m fated to meet Grace and Redbeard and make sure they get a home.”</p>
<p>“They’re adorable, but stinky,” Donna said. Sherlock didn’t negate it. </p>
<p>“They’ll have a bath once we’re at the Shack.”</p>
<p>“So there’s nothing we can do?” Irene said, defeated. Donna soothingly rubbed her shoulder, and the Doctor grimaced. He turned to look back at the glass board and gasped. </p>
<p>Donna shot her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. It’s unlikely. It’s like… like there’s a variable missing.”</p>
<p>“What’s a variable?”</p>
<p>Suddenly, the Doctor cried out, “Sherlock! Don’t move! Donna, do you see it?”</p>
<p>“I see Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“No, the whole picture,” he gestured, pointing out the fact that Sherlock’s head was clearly visible without being interrupted by any mathematical or physics related equation. An equation mark without a written solution displayed Sherlock in its place. Irene could practically see a lightbulb go off above the Doctor’s head. Donna gasped too, and a dawn of comprehension lightened up Irene’s deflated mood. </p>
<p>“That’s it! I believe we’ve figured it out,” Donna said, standing up. Irene did too, and it occurred to her that Sherlock is the answer. Huh. Did they need an equation for that? </p>
<p>“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly, understanding the commotion of Doctor and Donna as they scrambled up the junk littered around and kicked it out of the way for now. “Alright then. What now?”</p>
<p>The Doctor claimed his position at the console panel. The turquoise light illuminated his sharp face like a maniacal villain, except he was a very sweet if eccentric alien. “It’s rewind time, everybody!”</p>
<p>TARDIS took them back to the past half-hour. The Doctor gave out instructions as they marched out to fulfill their goal to make Mike and Molly happy. </p>
<p>“First off, we need to wait for the right wind speed. Donna, you’ll stand by the cotton candy shop and watch out for Andrew West --”</p>
<p>“We’re <em>not</em> melting the cotton candy.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say that. Yet. Alright, next: Irene, you will need to stall Mike and convince him to throw the ball above the stall.”</p>
<p>“What? How do I do that?”</p>
<p>The Doctor stopped and gripped her by the shoulders. He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’re convincing enough. Sherlock, how good are you at baseball?”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” Sherlock told him. His eyes widened. “Wait -- what about Grace and Redbeard? I have to go get them or --”</p>
<p>Irene looked at him in silent plea. “It’s just five minutes, Sherlock. Help us? Please?”</p>
<p>Sherlock was torn by the prospect of delaying his encounter with the dogs, but he swallowed and agreed to come help them. They all went to their respective positions and Irene feigned an innocent meet-up with Molly and Mike at the stall. </p>
<p>“Hey guys,” she greeted them. Molly’s half-moon eyes smiled at her from where she stood next to Mike. Irene leaned in to him and whispered, “Mike, a word, if you will?”</p>
<p>Mike picked up on her hushed tone, but sidestepped and told Molly to give them a moment. Once out of earshot, Irene began executing their plan. “I need you to throw the ball straight above the stall.”</p>
<p>“What? Why? That’s not how this works.”</p>
<p>“I know how it sounds, but that’s how you’ll win Molly the ugly bear and later be able to ask her out.”</p>
<p>“How -- how do you…”</p>
<p>Irene waved a hand. “Long story, I’m tired. Short version: I’m a matchmaker supreme, so trust me, will you?”</p>
<p>Mike hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at Molly who admired the obnoxious fur of the bear mutant toy. “I… Jesus, why not. You managed to push Mister Hotson for a date. I trust you.”</p>
<p>Yelling inwardly like an excited seal, Irene felt a wave of relief wash over her body. Christ almighty. The end of this bulshit was nigh! </p>
<p>Mike took his stance and the owner handed him the ball. Molly cheered him on, and Irene caught a sight of Donna watching them from over the cotton candy stall. Sherlock leaned on the other side holding a shovel, waiting for his signal. He’s never played baseball in his life, was the Doctor sure this would work? </p>
<p>As planned, Mike counted to three and threw the ball above the stall as he agreed to. Molly awed that he so obviously missed, but Irene shushed them both to watch. A mechanic wobbly sound later, the metal rim of the stall’s roof sprung up and the ball boinked to the right where it hit the taunting guy waiting to go swimming with fish (unable to send him on his way, much to people’s disappointment), then it was kicked by running child back to their left, it bounced off of a diagonal trampoline (don’t ask), back at the stall’s roof and behind their back to where Donna and Sherlock inconspicuously waited for further development, knocking Andrew West’s sorry ice pack out of his hands and on the dry ground. Sherlock suddenly came to life, raised the rusty shovel and sent the baseball straight back at Mike and Molly, who ducked out of its way screaming. The ball hit the bottles and flew out of the stall, its spectators unharmed. </p>
<p>“Your stuffed creature of indeterminate species, miss,” the stall owner’s gruffly voice announced as he put the bear-crocodile-unicorn mutant stuffed animal in her arms. </p>
<p>“That’s awesome! Mike, thank you!” Molly giggled, hugging her friend around the neck. Mike’s cheeks stained with pink, but maybe that was the heat. Irene pushed the need to clap and cry out of happiness to the back of her mind. </p>
<p>“Uh, hey Molly!” Andrew West appeared by her elbow, smiling down at her. Mike and Irene scowled. </p>
<p>“Andrew! Look at what Mike got me!”</p>
<p>Molly shoved the stuffed nature’s abomination in Andrew’s face, which contorted with disgust. Not a fan of mother Earth’s fine selection, huh? “Ah. How cute. Mike’s with you, then?”</p>
<p>“Yep! Mike, how about we celebrate? We need to pick a name for this fluffer.”</p>
<p>The encounter dissolved on its own. Molly dragged Mike away, the boy fractionally turning his head to mouth a thank you to Irene, still stunned by how the fuck this ever worked. Irene had no idea herself. Andrew pissed off to sulk elsewhere at the fair. </p>
<p>“I’d say that’s a success,” the Doctor said, walking up to her from behind the stall. </p>
<p>“Tremendous!” Irene sighed, throwing herself around the man’s neck. He patted her lightly on the back, laughing. </p>
<p>When she saw Donna come in and hug her, she noticed that Sherlock had run off to get his dogs. Oof. This was a wild ride. The three of them decided to go to the park to have a bit of calm settle around them. However, Sherlock met them halfway there, panting and panicked.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” Irene blurted out, horrified that they caused some uncanny time paradox. Donna seemed equally alarmed and the Doctor was frowning. </p>
<p>“The Animal Control guy,” Sherlock gasped for air. He shook Irene be the shoulders, eyes distraught, posture rigid and movements jerky. “He took them. He took Grace and Redbeard.”</p>
<p>“Oh no,” Donna whispered.</p>
<p>“We messed up the timeline. I tried to talk to the man but since I came late he was suspicious and asked for my papers and other ownership crap. He knew I was lying and he <em>took them, Irene</em>.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Irene told him, for all it was worth. He’s developed a bond with them too quickly. He claimed that he shielded himself from sentiment, but he fell harder and faster than most in reality. </p>
<p>Sherlock exhaled deeply and straightened his back. He shook his head to clear his mind. “It’s alright.” He turned his neck to look at the Doctor. “We need to rewind.”</p>
<p>Before the Doctor or Donna could reply, Irene beat them to it. “What? Sherlock, you did the math. In any other timeline, Molly gets asked out by Andrew West and Mike stays alone! We can’t mess this up when we achieved the best outcome for them!”</p>
<p>“If we don’t go back, I’ll lose Redbeard and Grace forever!”</p>
<p>“Maybe it’s better if they go to a shelter, Sherlock,” Irene argued, tired of fighting, tired of the whole day. The Doctor and Donna watched them like a tennis tournament, heads bobbing from side to side.</p>
<p>“How can you say that? I told you what happens to dogs who are taken to shelters!”</p>
<p>“Redbeard will find a family right away!”</p>
<p>“Grace won’t,” Sherlock growled. “Are you that blind or were you always this ignorant? <em>They put adult dogs down quicker!</em> They won’t care that Redbeard will miss his mom, or that Grace will be heartbroken, or that she’ll die alone!”</p>
<p>“Bloody hell, do you always have to be this dramatic?! Wake up, you arse, I don’t see why Grace would die alone. She can perfectly find a family to love her.”</p>
<p>“Maybe, but that’s not <em>us!</em>”</p>
<p>Irene’s temper raised by a degree; she was losing patience. “Does it have to be us? Dogs adjust, Sherlock. Why can’t you?”</p>
<p>She hit a nerve. She recognised it the moment the words and the implication they carried left her mouth. Irene closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. She scratched at her temple. “Sherlock….”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>Irene blinked, and her brother was gone. Out of the corner of her sight she saw a flurry of motion. Sherlock pushed his way through a crowd of tourists, taking out a lighter and cigarette out of his pockets. </p>
<p>“Goddamnit.”</p>
<p>“That was awkward,” the Doctor stated, correctly so. </p>
<p>“I get why he’s upset,” Irene said, hoping to have a weeping willow in the time travellers. “But he’s also developed an unhealthy attachment to the dogs.”</p>
<p>“In Sherlock’s defense, he lived through their meeting four times,” Donna pointed out softly to Irene. “Well, three. This attempt doesn’t count.”</p>
<p>“And what am I supposed to do? Mike deserves to be happy.”</p>
<p>“I’m not saying he isn’t. But sometimes… Sometimes, things take time to resolve themselves on their own. It just takes a while to take effect, you know?”</p>
<p>Irene mulled over Donna’s words. She thought back to the first time she went in the park, Sherlock already being friends with the dogs. Didn’t she promise him to help convince Greg to keep them? The sole reason for that was the simple fact that he’d named the puppy after his long-lost brother. Fucking hell, she’d promised years ago she’d see to Sherlock be and stay happy. And she broke his trust because she got blindsided by a friend she wasn’t all that close to. She hurt Sherlock. </p>
<p>“What kind of sister am I?” Irene burrowed her face in her hands, hot tears forming in her eyes. She felt Donna’s soft embrace, and the Doctor’s grounding palm on her shoulder, barely moving to comfort her. </p>
<p>“We all make mistakes,” he said, a hint of sorrow in his voice. He cleared his throat. “As much as today appeared to be a fixed point in time, there’s a chance we just took to amend it. Sort of a butterfly effect.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to hurt Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“No, and Mike didn’t want to hurt Moly. And he didn’t. It’s just how this day is layed out. Inevitable. There’s two possible outcomes.”</p>
<p>Donna joined in. “Doctor’s right. Some days are just bound to be a catastrophe for some and brilliant for others. And if Mike didn’t get to ask Molly out today, well, there’s no guarantee that she stays with Andrew, is there? He can get another chance.”</p>
<p>“While Redbeard and Grace less so,” Irene finished what hung up in the air. She sucked in a shaky breath. Her ears picked up Molly’s laughter. She and Mike sat behind a table, close. So he’d asked. And no sign of Sherlock.</p>
<p><em>I’m sorry, Mike</em>.</p>
<p>Irene hugged Donna and the Doctor back. “I made up my mind.”</p>
<p>The next time Irene stepped out of TARDIS, the weather stayed as delightfully unbearable as the other four or five times. She lost count. The toi tois were still deathly stinking, even worse than a bog. Irene and the time traveller duo made their way to the stalls where everything resumed to its initial stage. Irene didn’t bother going up to Mike and Molly. She and Donna bought a cup of water each, the Doctor opting for a pink fizzy soda he sucked through a metal straw he magicked out of his suit.</p>
<p>The muffled cry of Molly being hit square in the eye reached her ears. She and Donna winced. “It is done.”</p>
<p>At that exact moment, someone’s strong arms lifted her off the ground and suddenly she was spinning in the air as Sherlock repeated, “Thank you thank you thank you thank you!”</p>
<p>Sherlock put Irene down only to spin her around and hug her tight, spinning them around again. She heard Donna chuckle, and the barks of Redbeard, whining that he’s not included. “He just said ‘thank you’ in dog,” Sherlock told her, and Irene had to laugh at that. “Didn’t you, Redbeard?”</p>
<p>Said puppy wagged its tail and stood on its rear legs to beg for a head scratch, and Sherlock obliged him. </p>
<p>Irene rested her head on Sherlock’s sternum. “I couldn’t make you sad, Sherlock. Besides, as Donna said, Mike may get another chance to ask Molly out. Andrew is not her type.”</p>
<p>“Well, seems like the deal’s sealed, then,” the Doctor chirped up, smiling at them. He bent in the waist the pet Redbeard and Grace. “I think we’re good to go.”</p>
<p>“Are we?” Donna sounded surprised. “Isn’t TARDIS still charging?”</p>
<p>“I checked before we left; she’s ready to go. Seems like the Rift powered our trips and simultaneously managed to give her enough power to travel.”</p>
<p>“Are you going to leave without knowing what causes the Rift?” Sherlock asked, an eyebrow arched curiously. </p>
<p>“Yes. Some answers need time to reveal themselves. Besides, it’s still gaining strength. I wouldn’t be surprised if TARDIS stops here relatively soon enough.”</p>
<p>“Would you keep us updated?”</p>
<p>“Can’t do that from the Napoleonic age exactly, but if you’re around on our next visit, we will.”</p>
<p>The Doctor and Donna then led them back to the blue police box inconspicuously waiting by the toi tois. The siblings stayed behind with the dogs, waving goodbye to the timey wimey duo, watching them close the blue door. Not long after did TARDIS start to dematerialise in front of their very eyes and Irene wondered how come that no one at the funfair noticed the sound. Once TARDIS traversed the time vortex and rematerialized at Donna and Doctor’s next destination, Irene and Sherlock decided to wait for Greg, John, and Mrs Hudson in the park under the shade. </p>
<p>Only now did Irene register the slight redness on Sherlock’s cheeks. Oh hell. He forgot to put sunscreen on. “You’re burnt.”</p>
<p>“Nothing I won’t survive.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I bet John will enjoy putting soothing lotion on.”</p>
<p>Irene giggled when a flush crept up Sherlock’s neck, pink splotches painting his pale skin like blank canvas. She hugged him around the waist, and he hugged her back. The decision she had made felt right. It <em>was </em>right. And they got two new family members out of it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Guys! Would you like me to share my playlist for this fic? I have 2, actually, and I made an anonymous poll on strawpoll.me right <a href="https://www.strawpoll.me/44431898">here on this link</a> where you can vote, if you like? <br/>Anyway, that's wholock for ya! One more chapter to go, and then we get into the real good stuff &gt;:D<br/>see you in 5!</p>
<p>words: 5218<br/>updated: 25.4. 2021<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care and don't get stuck in a time loop,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0053"><h2>53. Operation: REDBEARD V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is fluff</p><p>episode 10, chapter 5</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the end is nigh, but the adventure is only beginning!<br/>enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and the cat sticker that I've had on my laptop for 3 years and it's still lookin' cute</p><p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John was tapping his foot impatiently in the backseat of Greg’s car. His nightmare of a shopping disaster was finally over, even though he was still skeptical of his sanity. After the fifth or so time when he’d blinked and reversed back to the beginning, the world flowed forwards as though a dam broke and all the water it held tore John downstream with it, and in a quick succession he had found himself hauling the boards to the car’s roof and buckling up in case this was his only chance to get out of this unnerving repetitive loop. </p><p>Greg picked up on his antsiness, but made no comment, sensing he’d get a glare out of him and nothing else. That didn’t prevent a smirk from forming on his lips, but John ignored him. Mrs Hudson had a soliloquy about the importance of fertilizing your flower beds using the right technique and fertilizer from a good manufacturer, and Greg listened to her rant and asked a question here and there. The radio was on. As always, it played 70s and 80s music. <em>Somebody to Love</em> spoke to John on a personal level right now, and he ached to find Sherlock and hug him tightly.</p><p>He hadn’t realised he’d dozed off in the car, the hypnotic rhythm of tires on asphalt roads lulling him to a light sleep. He was roused by Greg’s voice repeating his name like a broken record missing every note of the song that was currently playing (David Bowie’s <em>Lady Stardust</em>). John blinked wearily and sat up in his seat, his neck vertebrae popping. His brain kicked into action, though his blood pressure and body had yet to catch up. His vision was blurry and went black for a second before fully restoring. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Everything, even the curbs, are taken,” Greg said, turning off the radio. John rested his cheek on the driver’s seat. “I’ll stop by the park’s entrance and you can go ahead while I take Hudders home. Sounds good?”</p><p>“Perfect,” John yawned, biting down a grin as his brain went <em>SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock</em>. “Goodbye, Mrs Hudson!”</p><p>He practically kicked the door open, sprinting out, fast enough not to hear Greg’s indignant ‘Hey!’ as he banged the door shut using more force than necessary. He tried to play it cool should Sherlock spot him first, but it took him longer than he’d like to locate his boyfriend and Irene. She was sitting at a table under the trees in the shade, and to John’s surprise, they were accompanied by two dogs. John didn’t recognise them; they weren’t Mike’s or anyone else’s he knew in Reichenbach Falls. Sherlock was sitting on the green grass, a red coated puppy in his arms. It looked like a hunting breed, but he couldn’t place it yet. </p><p>John sneaked up to them, Sherlock and Irene submerged in a conversation of their own. And Sherlock did the most adorable thing up to date and used a higher pitched, softer voice to talk to the puppy, kissing it on the head. </p><p>“Yes, lots of people are stupid, aren’t they?” he said, massaging the puppy’s floppy ears. “But Wilkes is extra stupid. Dogs are <em>much </em>smarter.”</p><p>“And here I thought you hated <em>Dog-dective Doug</em>,” John mused, a grin breaking out on his face when the four adorable creatures in front of him became aware of his presence. He dropped on one knee when the puppy ran towards him to greet him, licking his forearms and neck when John picked the baby up. “And who’s this little guy?”</p><p>A lick on his cheek, sloppy and wet. John smiled at the small bundle in his arms, its mom walking up to him to sniff his legs. Her big brown eyes stared at John, and then her tail wagged from side to side before stilling. </p><p>“I’m a friend,” John told her, offering her his palm to sniff. She licked at the salt on his skin accumulated from near-constant sweating as a sign that she likes him. He put the puppy on the ground. </p><p>“John! Finally,” Irene groaned, lying down on the bench. “Entertain your boyfriend. I’m exhausted.”</p><p>“From what?”</p><p>“Shark week.”</p><p>“My condolences,” John huffed a pitiful laugh as she lay down on her side on the narrow bench and subsequently passed out. Sherlock stood up in the meantime and made a show of dusting his jeans, and then he shyly looked up at John, who outstretched his arms to welcome Sherlock in an embrace. If Sherlock didn’t throw himself at John, then he wasn’t sure what the force of nature was. John held Sherlock close, lifting him off the grass minutely, his nose buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “Hello, you. I missed you.”</p><p>“Me too,” Sherlock mumbled in John’s ear, sending shivers down his spine. “Terribly.”</p><p>“Yeah, I had the most terrible hour and a half of my life. I thought I was going crazy. Every time we got to the fucking boards for repair, it was as if time had rewound or something. I was sure I blacked out from a heat stroke.”</p><p>“Really?” Sherlock asked, huffing a nervous laugh. “Curious.”</p><p>John kissed the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, relishing the way his breath hitched. “And what were you and Irene up to besides making new friends?”</p><p>“Ha, well… I’ll tell you later.” His fingers sneaked into John’s hair. “Also, John?”</p><p>“Mhm?”</p><p>“You can put me down now.”</p><p>“Shit, sorry,” John said, carefully depositing Sherlock back on the succulent grass. His hands stayed around Sherlock’s waist, however, and Sherlock’s rested on John’s shoulders. Sherlock weighed less than he anticipated, but it didn’t take John by surprise. He was tall and skinny, all bones and clothes, really. But not only that, he could feel the muscles under his touches. Sherlock wasn’t weak, it was just a clever deception. Before they could lean in and kiss, the puppy whined, begging for their attention. “Are you going to introduce us?”</p><p>“This is Redbeard,” Sherlock said, a tender smile curving his lips as he crouched on Redbeard’s level again. John joined him, his side pressing into Sherlock’s. No way he’s going to sit anywhere further. Irene dozed off on the bench like a log. </p><p>“Hi, Redbeard,” John mumbled, petting the small wiggling bean. </p><p>“And this is Grace. Redbeard’s mom. She likes you. Both of them do.”</p><p>“How can you tell?”</p><p>“They’re basically all over you.” Untrue. Only Redbeard pawed his way into John’s lap. But Grace did rest her head on John’s thigh. He ran the tips of his fingers atop her skull and down the back of her neck. Her coat was dusty and left residue of dirt on his skin, but he didn’t mind. “See? They love you.”</p><p><em>And I, you,</em> John thought. “Dogs love everyone. Except those who hurt them.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Who do they belong to?”</p><p>A beat of silence. “They’re homeless, John,” Sherlock said, a hint of sadness on the edges. </p><p>“Strays? Poor doggies.” John adopted his cutesy tone he reserved for animals and the occasional toddler who started crying at the sight of Greg’s exhibits. “You don’t have a home? That’s alright, we’ll find you one.”</p><p>Sherlock leaned on his shoulder, and John rested his cheek atop his soft, lavender smelling curls. He loved that shampoo on Sherlock. “John?”</p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>“I was thinking…” He hugged John’s right arm and caressed the underside of his forearm. “Could we keep them?”</p><p>John blinked and kissed the curls. “Redbeard and Grace?” At Sherlock’s affirmative hum, John gave it some thought. It’s not that he or Greg are opposed to dogs, not in the slightest. But they’re a lot of care, and while John is at an age where he’s responsible enough for other living creatures to take care of the furry friends during summer, would Greg mind having them around even when he’s in Toronto? </p><p>In all truth, John welcomed the idea of having dogs around the Shack. Not only do they brighten up bad days and make people move their bones, but they’re good companions when one gets lonely or sad. Unfortunately, the dogs John had when he was younger had passed away… under circumstances he’d rather not think about. That made him value the canine buddies even more. </p><p>Owning a dog could be beneficial for Greg. He tried to act cool and suave, but John sensed the sadness every year before his imminent departure for Canada, growing ever since the first day of his arrival. Greg has been alone for too long. He’d dated years ago, but they never talked about his previous partner, and he gave up on the romantic scene since. John had a faint memory of a tuxedo cat Greg had had when he was six, but the feline was long gone, too. Be as it may, Greg’s other companion was Mrs Hudson and Kate, but Kate also left for university at the end of summer. The tourist onslaught slowed down then, so Greg and Mrs Hudson had no problems managing it on their own. But even Mrs Hudson left work at the end of her shift and Greg stayed at the house alone by himself. John worried about him, constantly. His grunkle could use having other living souls around all day and night. </p><p>Sherlock stirred and raised his head off John’s shoulder. He bit his lower lip and then puckered them, trying to mask his nervousness. He picked up on John’s contemplation and probably took it as a no, so John hurried to amend. </p><p>“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” John said, winding an arm around his neck and pulling him closer so that he could press a kiss to his cheekbone. Sherlock’s wide eyes snapped up to his, full of wonder and awe that John agreed. “What?”</p><p>“I… didn’t think it would be that easy,” Sherlock conceded, putting an arm around John’s waist. The park was now empty for the most part, and they were in the more secluded section. “Irene and I had a bit of a fight over it.”</p><p>His sister was dead cold on the bench. “What’s got her so tired?”</p><p>“Long story,” Sherlock yawned, shaking Redbard’s tiny paw. “But she’s also on her period. I made sure she’s hydrated, though, so she’ll be fine. Do you think Lestrade will protest?”</p><p>“I don’t think so, he’s a softie. You heard how he was with the kleptomaniac racoon. If he puts up a fight, we gang up on him.”</p><p>“Excellent. I gave them pirate names.”</p><p>“Yeah, I thought Red’s a bit of a wild one,” John joked, ruffling the puppy’s fur. “What about mama here?”</p><p>“Grace O’Malley,” Sherlock said. “I forgot the trivia and I haven’t looked it up on Google yet, but she was what you’d call a ‘badass’ woman.”</p><p>“That’s cool. Why pirates?”</p><p>Sherlock hesitated, taking a deep breath. “My older brother and I… we used to play pirates together when I was a child,” he explained. “I was his First Mate.”</p><p>“You had a brother?” John repeated, startled by the knowledge. Sherlock straightened his back and angled himself so that he faced John. “Sorry, didn’t want to sound accusatory. You just never said.”</p><p>“He went missing thirteen years ago.” </p><p>John’s brows knitted together. “Oh, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. Come here.”</p><p>“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock put up a hand, though his gaze became distant. “It happened long ago.”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean it stopped hurting like a bitch,” John argued, pulling him close to hug him. Sherlock relaxed a trifle, burying his nose in John’s golden hair. “You were what, seven?”</p><p>“Yes. I gave him the nickname Redbeard.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“And when I saw the puppy I thought it fit.”</p><p>John chuckled, rocking them imperceptibly from side to side as an attempt to soothe Sherlock. He couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like, losing a sibling. He and Harry were estranged; she moved out at seventeen and left for their grandma’s place in California. John stayed at his fucked up home during breaks, except for summer. His relationship with his immediate family could best be described as cold. Maybe even nonexistent. He had a lot of repressed issues he couldn’t deal with three years ago or so. But Sherlock must have had it tougher. His use of past tense implied his brother was long gone.</p><p>“What was the age difference between you?” he asked. </p><p>“Fifteen years. My biological father died when I was eight months old. Don’t say sorry, I never knew him. Irene’s father raised me like his own. He’s the one I call dad.”</p><p>“Still sucks.” Sherlock shrugged and straightened his back. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “What was your brother’s name? You called him Redbeard as a nickname.”</p><p>“That’s because he was ginger like a fox in cartoons,” Sherlock smiled, and John was glad to see it. Grace climbed into his lap, apparently liking John enough to use him as a bed. He petted her belly, and she repositioned herself to seek out the comforting touch. John settled on circular motions and she seemed content. Sherlock laughed at the next sentence. “His name was Mycroft. And the summer before last he tried to grow out a beard, hence the nickname.”</p><p>“Makes sense. It’s a nice memory.”</p><p>“It is. I told you Grace likes you.”</p><p>“And have I told you you’re a genius yet?” </p><p>“Not today,” Sherlock complained, casting him a half-hearted glare. John cradled fingers through his curls as a form of apology. </p><p>“Poor you,” he said. “No one to flatter your ego….”</p><p>“You’re not funny,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the smile was there all the same. </p><p>John scooted closer to him, careful not to disturb Grace too much. He bumped their shoulders. “I’m sorry, my genius extraordinaire. Will you forgive me?”</p><p>“I’m afraid you’ll have to walk the plank,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, lying flat on his back by a way of fainting. </p><p>“So what, you’re the pirate captain now?” </p><p>“Perhaps. I have a feeling you’d be good for the position too. It could be a joint leadership. ‘Captain Watson’ would suit you.”</p><p>“Is this your military kink speaking too?” John teased, thinking about the rank of captain and its relativity. </p><p>Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he <em>stuttered</em>. John gave Irene’s taunts at the party days ago little thought, but oh-oh. She may have been onto something. “Wha-what?”</p><p>“I’m just pulling your leg,” John giggled, unable to contain it. Then he forced his expression to sober up as he looked back at Sherlock. “Or am I?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Sherlock mumbled, definitely not rosy-cheeked. John won’t tease him about it. Much. </p><p>Redbeard barked at a stranger walking towards them, except it wasn’t a stranger, but John’s grunkle. Mrs Hudson didn’t live too far off from here, but he still made it back pretty fast. Greg was swinging car keys around his forefinger, shades on, his care in the world switched off. Redbeard used Sherlock as a leverage to rush off to meet the new human, Grace raising her head to see where her kid’s ran off to again. </p><p>“Hi buddy!” Greg cooed, his Disney Princess mode on. John smiled, and Irene woke up stifling a groan. Redbeard jumped in front of Greg ready to be loved by yet another person, because dogs have infinite storage for that emotion. “Whose are you? Hm? Where’s your mom?”</p><p>“Right here,” John waved at him, pointing at the big dog straddling his lap. Shit, one of his legs went numb. “And they’re strays.”</p><p>“Yeah, I can see they have no collars. Did you call Animal Control or the vet?” </p><p>“No,” Sherlock replied immediately. Irene sat up on the bench, rubbing at her eyes. “Animal Control is dangerous for them.”</p><p>“Why? They help find their owners.”</p><p>“They have no owners. By my estimation, they’ve been scouting the streets for at least two months, given the puppy’s approximate age. He could be three or four months old.”</p><p>“Aha. And what do you suggest we do about the dogs, then?”</p><p>John decided to jump in and put on his nephew charms. “Can we keep them?”</p><p>“Huh? John, we can’t know if someone lost them,” Greg argued, though the gleam in his eyes suggested he wasn’t opposed to it. He crouched on their level and Grace got up to sniff at him. “Hello girl. You’ve a nice coat. Where did you come from?”</p><p>Sherlock was biting his lip again. John gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed his arm. “Greg, they have no one. Don’t you think you’d see an announcement in the news about missing dogs? You read the papers every morning, you’d know.”</p><p>A logical point, Greg couldn’t dispute it. John’s uncle tilted his head from side to side. Sherlock held his breath, but John took it as a sign of victory. Irene yawned and stretched like a cat. Redbeard peed under the bench. </p><p>“Ew. Sherlock, your dog peed near me,” Irene deadpanned, booping the puppy on the nose. </p><p>“Everyone pees,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Did you give them names?” Greg asked, hands massaging Grace’s neck. </p><p>“Grace and Redbeard,” Sherlock replied, and Greg’s head snapped up, blinking. Sherlock didn’t see it, his own gaze downcast, but John noted the flicker of surprise and the firmness of his mouth. </p><p>“I see. Grace O’Malley?”</p><p>That shocked him. “You know her?”</p><p>“Yeah, bits and pieces. It suits them.”</p><p>“They’re…. They’re homeless, Lestrade,” Sherlock said somberly. He scratched the back of his neck and scooted closer to John. Irene propped her chin up on her open palm. “I’m aware that you may not be inclined to take more than you can chew when it comes to living beings at the Shack, but they don’t deserve to be left out on the streets. Grace is a single mother, do you have any idea how hard it is to raise a child in the wild?”</p><p>Greg grinned, a rueful crook of his lips. “I can imagine. I didn’t say we’re leaving them here. Just wanted to know if they have a home or someone who misses them.”</p><p>“They could now.”</p><p>They fell silent, and John and Irene exchanged glances. The ten or fifteen minutes of rest made a world of difference to her. Greg breathed in. “Yeah, I agree. Let’s take them to the vet, shall we?”</p><p>“You mean that?” </p><p>“I’m not making promises,” Greg said, grunting as he stood up. “They may have microchips to keep track of them. The vet is my friend -- Lilly Hooper, she has a granddaughter your age.”</p><p>“Yeah, Molly,” Irene said. </p><p>“That’s her. She owes me a favour, so she’ll check them for us and see if there are any internal health problems we can’t see right now. If Grace and Redbeard have no chips, we’ll take them, alright?”</p><p>“You really don’t mind.” Sherlock sounded skeptical. John was taken aback ever so slightly by how fast his grunkle accepted the dogs, but should he be? He’s a Disney Princess alright. </p><p>“I don’t. I grew up surrounded by animals, I have a soft spot for them.”</p><p>“We know,” Irene smirked. </p><p>“Shush! We won’t speak of the racoon incident. Is it just me or is Grace limping?”</p><p>Grace walked over to Redbeard to lick his snout and the puppy then lapped at his mom’s neck to play. She favoured her left hind leg over the right, but John didn’t see any obvious injury. It must have healed, then, but the result wasn’t satisfactory. It didn’t restrict her movements to a greater degree, thankfully, and she was able to walk evenly on her own. </p><p>“I suppose she sustained an injury in the past, but not major enough to cripple her,” Sherlock said, brows furrowed in a sad frown. He should’ve expected Sherlock to be a softie around animals, just like Greg is. These two are more similar than Sherlock would admit. </p><p>“Right,” Greg nodded, a firm dip of his head. “Did you give them water? It’s hot, they --”</p><p>“Irene bought some with the money you gave us. We also gave them fries, but that’s not nutritionally valuable for them. They need proper dog food.”</p><p>“Agreed. Let’s go, then. The vet clinic is at the end of town. I drove Hudders home so one of you can sit up front.”</p><p>Irene sprung back to life at that, shouting, “Me! Dibs! You guys can sit back and get peed on by Redbeard.”</p><p>“How gracious of you,” Sherlock grunted, but the smile he gave John carried no bite. He’d kiss him, but the space was too crowded for his liking. Later. </p><p>Greg picked Redbeard up as Irene and Sherlock bickered about dog outfits and what colour would suit Grace if she were to wear a bow. John and Grace walked behind them, her limp slowing her down, but she kept up just fine. Once they got back to Greg’s car, he handed Redbeard to Sherlock who dived in first, followed by Grace whom John had to lift and put on the backseat since she couldn’t manage to jump on her own. John closed the door behind him and maneuvered himself so that Grace ended up sitting by the window, his side pressing to Sherlock’s in the middle. Redbeard splayed out over both their legs, biting at John’s fingers. </p><p>“I’m making a new rule, though,” Greg said as he started the ignition. </p><p>Irene looked in the rear view mirror at John, and John at Sherlock. “Yes?”</p><p>“Whoever’s babysitting Redbeard will clean his failed potty training attempts. Clear?”</p><p>The conjoined sigh was answer enough. “Clear.”</p><p>~</p><p>The visit at the vet’s went smoothly. The veterinarian was a nice lady, and she greeted Greg in spite of not having booked a session. She had a slow day at the clinic, so it was no problem. She had admitted them the moment they arrived, and the examination took around fifteen minutes total. Mrs Hooper had found no microchips that branded the dogs, meaning that they could keep them. Mrs Hooper had then entered their information into her computer for data keeping and made sure the dogs got their vaccinations, meds, and booked a checkup in a few weeks to get another dose in their systems so that they can be healthy. Greg had sorted out the bills and bought dog food Mrs Hooper advised them to get -- two separate bags with high nutritive value for both the dogs. As they drove back to the Shack, Greg had made a quick detour to the mall to purchase collars for the dogs and other essential gear for them: toys, beds, bowls, snacks…. He came back carrying two full bags of this stuff, handing Redbeard a squeaky toy in the shape of a hot dog. </p><p>Now, back at the Shack, everyone has settled down for the night. Grace and Redbeard were to stay in the kitchen during the nights until Redbeard learned to pee outside. John and Greg put newspapers on the floor there to make cleanup easier in the morning should the puppy make an accident. The dogs had their dinner, cuddles, a bath, and by the time they were properly dried it was late enough for their human companions to go to sleep. Only Greg stayed downstairs to watch TV and snore during advertisements. </p><p>The trio of John, Sherlock, and Irene retreated to the attic, the siblings recounting their run-in with the time travellers to John. He listened intently, cry-laughing when he realised that he wasn’t crazy, but the time was indeed rewound on multiple occasions due to Irene’s desire to matchmake other poor unfortunate souls. Needless to say, that plan didn’t work out. </p><p>“I can’t believe I missed out on time travellers,” John said wistfully. He was lying on the carpet covered floor, staring at the ceiling. </p><p>“The Doctor is a very peculiar man,” Sherlock said, jotting information about the Rift down in the mystery journal. “He and Donna were helpful. I wonder how soon they’ll return.”</p><p>“Depends on TARDIS, it seems.”</p><p>“Obviously. It’d be best if she managed to bring them back by the end of summer so that we can get our answers, but we can hope. We could set out to search for some answers ourselves, but we don’t have the necessary tech, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Then invent it, science bro,” Irene yawned from her bed, turning her phone off. “You’re supposed to be the smart one.”</p><p>“I am a chemist, not Tony Stark,” Sherlock said dryly. “Go to sleep.”</p><p>“You can’t tell me what to do!”</p><p>“I just did.”</p><p>“Touché. I’m knackered. And I’m bleeding. Enough talking, fuck off and let me sleep. Go snog in John’s room.”</p><p>And with that, Irene graciously turned her back to them, draped a thin blanket over her legs, and switched her lamp off, promptly falling asleep. John chuckled and scrambled to his feet. They were dismissed. And he didn’t want to test Irene’s temper while she had cramps. He’d given her a pill for the pain, so it should have started working. </p><p>Sherlock trailed behind John and together they washed their teeth. John made silly faces at his boyfriend in the mirror, trying to get him to laugh, but Sherlock adamantly avoided his gaze, his poker face in place. But this small victory of his won’t last long. </p><p>Out of the bathroom, John dragged them into his room and shut the door with a bang. They giggled as they stumbled into John’s bed, kissing softly. John was on top, straddling Sherlock’s hips, wrists pinned above his head. The dazed expression he had on his face set off a swarm of butterflies on John’s belly, and he leaned in to kiss him once more, if urgently. </p><p>They kissed and kissed, and John will certainly continue, but first he has to finish his previous objective. Sherlock was pliant under him, content and almost purring from the attention John was giving him. John let go of Sherlock’s wrists and cradled his face as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his back and pressed him closer. John used this moment of distraction to his advantage, sneaking his hands down Sherlock’s chest and to his belly -- and the tickling could begin. </p><p>“Gotcha!” John giggled, and Sherlock’s body spasmed at the unforeseen contact. </p><p>“JAWN NO!” Sherlock wheezed and tried to wriggle from under his grasp, but John was relentless. “AAAH! NO! STAPH! PLEASE!”</p><p>“I can’t,” John laughed along with him, resting his brow on Sherlock’s clavicle. “I can’t from how ticklish you are.”</p><p>“You -- You’re -- vile,” Sherlock gasped, and John kissed him on the side of his neck and tickled him again like the evil boyfriend he was. He delighted in Sherlock’s squeals. “NO! Jooooohn plea--please! Mercy, have mer…”</p><p>John sat up, his hands stilling at Sherlock’s ribs, whose own large hands covered John’s and squeezed them in an attempt to stop the torture. Sherlock’s chest was heaving, lips parted and glossy. John smirked and dipped his head to kiss Sherlock on the forehead and he tumbled over to lie on his side. </p><p>“I hate you,” Sherlock breathed, snuggling into John’s arms. </p><p>“I’ve been gifted, what can I tell ya,” John smiled and shifted them so that Sherlock was half-splayed on his chest. “Sorry. I just enjoy ruffling your feathers.”</p><p>“I’ll be damned if I ever turned into a bird.”</p><p>“Never say never.”</p><p>Sherlock kissed the underside of John’s jaw and hummed sleepily. “You’re like Reichenbach Falls.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” John’s eyes were drooping. He was tired, and this snugglefest was extremely comfortable. He nuzzled Sherlock’s curls and inhaled the sweet scent of lavender. </p><p>“Full of small mysteries that make you all the more alluring,” Sherlock purred contentedly. John snorted. Sherlock’s compliments were often unconventional, but he loved them nonetheless -- in all honesty, he loved them because he loved Sherlock and his eccentricity and quirkiness and everything he came with. “But I still hate your invincibility to tickling.”</p><p>“Too bad, boyfriend-mine. I’m amazing.”</p><p>“You are.” Abruptly, Sherlock sat up, the mattress springing and creaking under their weights. “John! I forgot to write about the Doctor’s previous visit linked to Alexander Hirsch in the journal!”</p><p>“So? You can do it tomorrow.”</p><p>“No, I’ve got to now before --”</p><p>“If you start banging pots and pans in the attic, Irene will kill you.”</p><p>“Correct, but this is for discovery! Come on, John, we have work to do.”</p><p>John blinked at him. And blinked. And blinked. Sherlock didn’t get the memo that it was near midnight. Damn hyperactive Brit. “Sherlock, you’re my boyfriend. I adore you. But it’s too late. We should go to sleep.”</p><p>“You didn’t think that when you were torturing me five minutes ago,” Sherlock remarked, bemused. </p><p>“That was revenge for you keeping up appearances in front of the mirror.”</p><p>“Your silly faces don’t work on me.”</p><p>“No, but my fingers sure do. Oh Jesus, I sound like Irene.”</p><p>Sherlock shook with laughter. “You’re awful. But yes, I suppose they do. Let’s stop the unwanted innuendos.”</p><p>“Agreed.”</p><p>“So you won’t join my monologues and theories?” Sherlock asked sadly. And John would give in, he would, but his battery for the day has been drained. </p><p>He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “Sorry. I’m already lying in my bed. Too comfy to move.”</p><p>“Oh. In that case, good night. But I reserve the right to wake you up early in the morning. Grace and Redbeard will need a walk.”</p><p>“Mhm. I know the perfect spot where to go.”</p><p>“Good. You’ll show us, then.” Sherlock stood up as John stretched out on his mattress, his spine curving off of it before he resettled. “Good night, John. And thank you.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“Grace and Redbeard.”</p><p>“Always, Sherlock,” John smiled, yawning. </p><p>Sherlock leaned in for a last kiss, and John saw his silhouette leave his room, his steps echoing softly in the corridor. The Shack fell silent. And slowly, John dove under and slept soundly for the rest of the short but calm summer night.</p><p>~</p><p>But not everything was as calm as it could have seemed. </p><p>Humid air brushed Greg’s skin as he slaved away in the lowermost level of the basement. Thank fuck the air conditioning was working flawlessly. He straightened his back and groaned at the pain that had settled in his lower back. He moved slowly so as not to throw himself out -- that wouldn’t do him a jackpot of good. He wasn’t getting any younger to begin with. </p><p>Greg leaned on the shovel in his sweaty grasp and let out a suffering sigh. He will have to recalibrate the shield securing the cave because the sucker was slacking. He couldn’t blame him, he’s been at it for almost two decades, but if it meant that certain spots were caving <em>in</em>, well…. That was going to be dangerous. Luckily the job on the generator won’t be difficult, Greg had to conduct far worse recalibrations in his fifteen years of speedrunning this weird portal game. At least there isn’t cake to freak him out. </p><p>Once the last bits of dirt and tiny rocks were shovelled aside to a chute, he tossed the tool itself on the ground in silent disgust. He’s tired. He’s exhausted, damn, maybe he’s even beyond the point of exhaustion. But he has to carry on. Just a few more weeks and this hell might be over. </p><p>He retreated to the room overseeing the cave and the masterplan of his lifetime. He collapsed in a chair and limply reached for a water bottle he kept under the metal table. The plastic crinkle of it was gunshot loud in the vastly empty space as Greg gulped the water thirstily. It was refreshing, but not enough to grant him energy to go do another maintenance job. A burnout was creeping on him, he could feel its edges eat at his sanity and will to get up and work. He won’t push himself any more today. </p><p>And today… has been an interesting day. He wouldn’t have guessed that they’d adopt two strays, but this was far from the craziest thing that’s happened to him. And besides, he loved dogs just like most animals. He had a soft spot for these creatures and of course he wouldn’t leave them homeless. This used to be a problem when he was a kid -- his mother often complained that he wass knees deep in dirt and dust instead of some posh suit, which is ironic because he chooses to willingly wear them now. They’re a part of the charade that has become a part of his identity. </p><p>It wasn’t easy, living entwined in webs of lies and ropes of hopes that left him dangling over a pit of uncertainty, but Greg made do. He had to. First he did it for John when he was a child and his family was breaking apart into glassy sharp shambles ready to cut deep, then his husband after he’d gone missing, and now he does it for everything. Because if not him, then who will? </p><p>Every day, his second pair of watches ticked and tocked the countdown until the end of October, a maddening rhythm setting off alarms in Greg. Fifteen years of work were coming to fruition, and he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or even more anxious. Both, probably. He wasn’t terrified, at least not in the current moment, but who knows? </p><p>Ironically enough, it wasn’t the portal nor the inevitable anomalies that worried Greg. No, that prize was taken by the Club. They were a bunch of well-bred morons, but he shouldn’t underestimate them. If they plan to buy out properties across the Falls like the cult that they are he will need to take more precautions to ensure John and the kids and the Shack are safe. That shouldn’t be too hard since they’ll be going to university in the last week of August after John’s birthday. However….</p><p>The curse (or rather, The Thing, as he decided to call it) was another matter. He had little to no leads as to where it came from. The effects are relatively harmless if he were to be a fool to say so. Unfortunately, it created a myriad of worries and confusion that he couldn’t decipher in spite of his and Anthea’s best efforts. He’ll wait for a short while longer to see if it will sort itself out, but if he doesn’t see any improvement by the twenty-second of August, he’ll have to relent to desperate measures….</p><p>Jesus, how he hated this. And the worst thing was that it wasn’t even started by him. He was merely dragged into this mess when he was a teenager himself. His whole life was haunted, wasn’t it? </p><p>Dropping his face in his calloused, dirty hands, Greg sighed. He really was tired. But rest has been eluding him for the past two decades, who is he to chase it?</p><p>There was a rasp nearby. Greg looked up at the walkie talkie that lay on the desk. His arm automatically shot out to grab it, analysing the signal it was receiving. He expected it to catch onto something in a week or two, but it was getting unpredictable. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, steadying breath. Pushing a button, he spoke.</p><p>“Hey,” he tried, a hint of cheerfulness behind the worn-out words. Greg cleared his throat. “Sorry. Been working all day and night. Bit tired, but nothing to worry about. I hope you’re good. Well, as good as you can be, which I hope is exceptionally good. I know I’m rambling, but give me an example when I wasn’t, eh?”</p><p>His attempt at a dry laugh didn’t work. He allowed himself to calm down, his heart beating frantically in his ribcage. </p><p>“You know, I got some news today.” A pause to let it sink in. “Nothing sinister, don’t worry. No, just…. There was a funfair in town today. Hudders, John, and I had to go pick up some boards for repairs on the outside of the Shack -- roof’s leaking -- and Irene and Sherlock went to the funfair. All was fine.”</p><p>Well, it depends how you define ‘fine’. If you don’t count the suspicious amounts of time when <em>time</em> seemed to have rewound, then yeah, it was fine. Otherwise it was just really rude and annoying, but none of Greg’s calls to Anthea or Gabe suggested sinister causes. He had a look around the funfair, but there he was distracted by the dogs. Speaking of which….</p><p>“You know,” he began, “there’s another thing. The kids found stray dogs, two Irish Setters. A mom and a puppy. So we took ‘em to Lilly Hooper’s and as it turns out, they have no owners. I think you can guess where this is going and yep, we adopted them. They’re adorable.”</p><p>Greg rubbed at his eyes using the knuckles of his fingers. </p><p>“And… well. Sherlock gave them names. He named the mom Grace, after Grace O’Malley. She has this nice white and red coat. And the puppy has a purely red coat, and he’s the cutest thing I’ve seen in a while. That is, besides John and Sherlock being two lovebirds. The puppy… in case you haven’t figured, is named Redbeard.”</p><p>He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes. </p><p>“So…. So. I thought I’d tell you. I still do call you Captain Redbeard on occasion too, and I was a little surprised that Sherlock chose this name but I’m not really that shocked. He does remember you, even if it’s been a decade and a half. I dunno, I hope it sort of… calms you? You won’t be a stranger to him. I heard him tell John a few facts about you, like the goatee that you tried to grow out once. Let me remind you that I didn’t <em>hate </em>it, but I think it would’ve looked better trimmed. I haven’t talked to Sherlock personally yet, but he is very fond of you and reminisces. That much is obvious. So yeah. You live on in his heart. And mine. And you’re coming back soon. I have to dock up some machines because they’re fucking with me -- metaphorically -- but otherwise it’s going alright. I miss you. And I hope you’re getting this message.”</p><p>Greg took his thumb off the button that let him transmit his speech and stared at the device longingly. He had no guarantee that the person at the other end was listening, or even alive, but if there was a singular thing he believed in, it was this. Whatever it takes, he’s going to get answers, and his husband back.</p><p>“Good night, Mycroft,” he bade sadly. “Thank you for listening, and I wish you a very nice day or night, wherever you are. Take care.”</p><p>He signed off, taking painfully long to rise from his chair. His body felt like lead, and he barely made it to the gift shop and the living room couch before his consciousness started slipping from him. </p><p>Three more months. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WOW REVEAL AND YEAAAAA IT'S MYCROFT. ARE YOU FEELING SAD YET? DO YOU *SNIFF* THE TRAGEDY?<br/>SHOUT OUT to Yourlocalgremlin for figuring this out back in episode 4, chapter 3!! :D (a.k.a. chapter 21) this is just one of the few mysteries out there in the fic, so feel free to share! :D I love reading your suspicions, heheheheh &gt;:D<br/>that being said, the plot thickens even more in our next episode! I'm very excited to share it with you all soon<br/>I'll see you on the fifth of May~</p><p>updated: 30.4. 2021<br/>words: 6493<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a very nice day/night wherever you are~<br/>Take care,</p><p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0054"><h2>54. There's an Angel in the Closet! I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which there is more fluff</p>
<p>episode 11, chapter 1</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>long time no see, and I return with a delivery of a new episode! does the name of it tell you anything? &gt;:3<br/>enjoy!<br/>special thanks to bee, dee, and kindergartens for existing and taking my sis into it because JESUS CHRIST ON A POPSICLE the peace is immaculate</p>
<p>Into battle!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John squatted in the grass of the vast colourful fields, lips pouting to make kissy noises at Redbeard who was currently running around like a blaze, ears flopping behind like flags, pink tongue out to taste the evoked breeze. Redbeard trailed past John to where Sherlock was standing, then to Grace who was sniffing a suspicious molehill, the dirt damp and freshly mounted.</p>
<p>“I’ll die from how cute Red is,” John said, grunting as he flopped back on the blanket he and Sherlock brought along from the Shack. Yesterday they greeted new family members in the house, so naturally they had to take them on walks. Sherlock roused John at 4:30, unable to contain his giddiness and child-like need to see that they truly kept the dogs. </p>
<p>Grace and Redbeard will inhabit the kitchen at night until Redbeard learns how to pee outside the house. Hence the walk at five in the morning. Even Mrs Hudson must’ve been in bed, but John suggested going out to a nearby meadow to watch the sunrise. John had packed a blanket thick enough for them not to get itchy from the grass and whatnot lying underneath the material, then some quickly constructed PB&amp;J sandwiches and ice tea in thermos that kept it chilled until they arrived here while Sherlock got the dogs ready and cleaned up any wetted newspaper in the kitchen. They’ve been quiet enough not to wake up the rest of the Mystery Shack, Greg snoring in his office upstairs and Irene in the attic. </p>
<p>Redbeard stayed on leash, a safe measure they decided to take just in case the youngster spotted a mouse or a similar creature that piqued his interest and he suddenly got the idea to run after it. Every so often, he tangled his paws in the blue leash, attacking it, trying to bite through the material, but Sherlock managed to divert his attention to prevent him from damaging the leash. He had to get used to it. Grace, however, was a completely different dog from her son, as expected from an adult. She kept close to John and Sherlock, the need to chase after the unknown clearly absent. She was a content dog who saw a lot in her short life, and had no such urges to dash across meadows, even though she was playful one-on-one. She was more of the cuddly type, like Sherlock. She did keep an eye out on Red, scolding him here and there by a growl or a short bark that made him halt and look at his mother in a tilt of his tiny head, as if to understand what social cue he’d missed. </p>
<p>“Have you ever had a dog?” Sherlock’s voice lulled him from his reverie. John unzipped their backpack and took out the tupperware full of sandwiches and ice tea. </p>
<p>“Three,” John replied. He handed his boyfriend his food and drink and scooted closer until they were pressed side to side, shoulder to shoulder. “They passed away.”</p>
<p>Sherlock rested his cheek on the edge of John’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “How old were they?”</p>
<p>“Not that old.” John sipped his iced tea. They sat atop a mini hill, if you will, that allowed them to overlook the rest of the flowery fields and meadows. Smelling food, Redbeard scurried closer, rudely jumping into John’s lap to beg for a bite. John patted him and shooed him off, so Redbeard went to beg Sherlock instead. Sherlock tore half of his sweet sandwich off and divided it between Red and Grace. “Look at you spoiling them. How come I don’t find that surprising?”</p>
<p>“They’re good dogs,” Sherlock cooed by way of explanation. He stuffed the rest of the jammed bread in his mouth so he could have both hands free to play with Redbeard. John found it sickeningly adorable how Sherlock’s eyes brightened, how his usual defenses dropped even lower. And the voice he used for the dogs! Cute beyond worlds. </p>
<p>John hid the tupperware in the backpack and lay down, head resting on his folded arms. The sky directly above them was clearing of the residual darkness of summer nights, shifting to blueish grey, then pure grey until it bled into soft oranges and pinks on the horizon. Sherlock lay down next to him and snuggled up to his side, as did Grace. </p>
<p>“What is this? Do I look like a pillow to you?” John laughed when Redbeard joined their nest on the blanket, clanking his teeth at Grace who rested her head on John’s stomach. </p>
<p>“For your information,” Sherlock yawned, throwing an arm across John’s chest and putting his head on John’s shoulder, “you’re a very comfortable pillow.”</p>
<p>“The best, I hope.”</p>
<p>“The very best. What happened to them?”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“Your dogs.”</p>
<p>Ah. John hasn’t told anyone besides Greg what happened for real. And even then he skipped the details his grunkle either assumed or found out. Sherlock stilled, awaiting a scathing response, but John just needed time to process the inquiry and how to put it to words. It’s hard to drag out of him when the thing that kept him sane was stashing the memories in corners of his mind and compartmentalising them. </p>
<p>“Do you want the long or short version?” John asked, more as a joke but also as an honest question. If Sherlock said he wanted the details, he’ll give them. The less he spent mulling over the decision himself, the better. He’ll just rattle out the facts as he knows them and then perhaps a part of his soul will feel lighter. </p>
<p>“Whichever version you’ll give me,” Sherlock said, his hold tightening for a second. Redbeard yawned and curled up to Grace. </p>
<p>Not an ideal answer, but he’ll take it. Maybe it’s better if Sherlock doesn’t know the whole truth, at least not now. It could be… overwhelming. </p>
<p>“We got our first dog when I was what, ten?” John said. “He was born on July fifth. I think we bought him in October. For seventy bucks from some dude who worked as a guard at a facility where my father sometimes worked his shifts as a welder.”</p>
<p>“What was his name? The dog’s, I mean.”</p>
<p>“Jerry Lee,” John grinned at the memory. “I often rewatched the movie K-9, do you know that movie? James Belushi played the protagonist.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never heard of that movie.”</p>
<p>John gasped. “Blasphemy! Seriously? Never?! I mean fine, the movie’s from 1989, but it’s a nice action comedy.”</p>
<p>“Nope. Never.” Sherlock wriggled closer to John. </p>
<p>John kissed the top of his curls as his right hand trailed Sherlock’s back. “Remind me to make you watch it with me.”</p>
<p>Sherlock purred at the contact, blissed out in the morning sunlight that cast warm colours on his face. It was like looking at a marble sculpture, John thought. Sherlock’s body and face were both a piece of art he’d check out all the time, as he did nowadays, but seeing him so relaxed was a privilege of its own. </p>
<p>“Anyway, Jerry was a mix of German Shepherd and a wolfhound. He had a really nice brown coat that blended well with autumn woods when we went on walks.” He recalled a few instances where Jerry dragged him up and down the familiar paths he’d trailed as a boy, ten years old and incredibly happy that they’d gotten a dog. “He aported anything and everything, which could be a lot of trouble. But he was the gentlest beast on Earth, he loved being around kids.</p>
<p>“The second dog we got was Jasmine. She was a purebred German Shepherd, but we called her Jas. I think her full name was some German heritage name I wouldn’t be able to pronounce correctly. She was snippier than Jerry and snapped at others if they were strangers, even at kids, but she never bit people. She was just really protective.”</p>
<p>John took a long breath, gazing at the sun poking out from under the horizon. His hand sneaked into Sherlock’s curls, and he’d think his boyfriend fell asleep if it weren’t for his fingers brushing up and down John’s rib cage.</p>
<p>“And then there was Lou. I found an advertisement on a local Facebook group that a guy had a beagle who had a litter, but the mother died and the puppies were four weeks old and needed a home.” Sherlock snuggled closer. “I begged my father to call the guy and take one. I was fifteen and had more time on my hands so I could take care of the puppy. I think it was in the middle of November. Originally we planned to take a male puppy, but there was only a girl left. I took her, of course. The guy brought her to our doorstep twenty minutes later.”</p>
<p>John bent one leg at the knee and Grace grunted at the interruption. She moved up to where Sherlock’s hand caressed John’s torso and gave an indignant snore. Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow so that he could pet her. John closed his eyes and continued. </p>
<p>“You should’ve seen her, Sherlock,” he said, smiling at the mental picture of the curled up white puppy whose pink snout barely started pigmenting to black. “She fit in my hands, she was like an overgrown furry bean. Four weeks old. I kept her in bed with me. She woke me up every hour to the minute to pee at night, so I took her out to our garden and watched her sniff around with her tiny paws.”</p>
<p>But there was more to it. Unfortunately, John’s life at that point wasn’t as flowery as it used to be when he was ten and a third grader in elementary school. Back when he was fifteen, he was already well aware that his parents had a fucked up relationship. Moreover, his father hounded him for everything, whether it was his mistake or not. He didn’t have an opportunity to take care of Lou the way he wanted to. His father usually overruled him, ridiculed him, and talked over him when it came to teaching Lou obedience. And each time, John got robbed of one more piece of happiness he had associated with owning a dog. And then he told John to keep Lou out in the cot with Jerry and Jasmine despite not having thick enough coat to be suitable to stay outside in winter. Overall, John didn’t have a say at all in regards to the dogs. </p>
<p>“But when I started highschool, I had to commute,” he continued, hugging Sherlock. “And it took fucking ages. I hate public transport, but that’s a tale for another day. In short, together I commuted like, two and a half to three hours a day. And I had to get up at five or earlier to catch a train.”</p>
<p>“Where on Earth did you live?” Sherlock huffed, amused at the problems of the lowers class. John rolled his eyes, smiling.</p>
<p>“Butt fuck nowhere, where else?”</p>
<p>“It sounds like the old joke my mom used to tell Irene and I when it snowed in London and there were millimeters of it dusting the road. We begged not to be taken to school and she’d say ‘<em>Back in my day we climbed the Big Ben to get to school and get an A on History essays for accuracy!</em>’ or some nonsense like that to lecture us on how good we have it.”</p>
<p>John laughed in earnest and kissed Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock in turn planted a kiss on John’s forehead. “Prick. Try sitting out morning trains. Actually, that’s impossible, because they’re fucking stuffed with people. I hated it. I still do.”</p>
<p>“Roger that. Reminder number one: never take John Watson on a morning train -- he’ll get pissy,” Sherlock said in a documentary-fashioned voice, which earned him a tickle. “Okay, okay! I’ll stop.”</p>
<p>“You better,” John grinned up at him, tipping his chin up to meet him in a kiss. The sloppy sound of it apparently interested Redbeard enough to stuff his snout into the action, breaking them apart. “Ew, off, Red!”</p>
<p>“Don’t be rude, John,” Sherlock scolded him, cradling the happy puppy in his arms and letting Redbeard lick his face all over. “He’s just curious, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah? Sorry for being hygienic. Remind me not to kiss you until you scrub your face, alright?”</p>
<p>Sherlock squinted at him, contemplating the consequences of his affections. He looked at Redbeard, then at John, back at Redbeard, and then again at John, who pushed himself up on his elbows, cocking an eyebrow. <em>I won, you lost, take it, genius.</em> Sherlock lay on his side, lips pursed, watching John. </p>
<p>“I suppose you’re right,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, his eyes reflecting the glow of the rising sun. John loved how his curls caught the light, transforming it into kind of a halo over his precious, beautiful face. Sherlock leaned in closer, but John stood his ground, ready to tackle him. However, Sherlock attempted no foul play. “So what about your trio of dogs?”</p>
<p>John swallowed and flipped on his back, Sherlock hovering above him. “Well, as highschool became more and more demanding, I had less time to take care of Lou or Jerry or Jas. Lou refused to behave in my father’s presence and he was losing his patience with her. I had a plan to give her to my grandma’s neighbours. Their dog succumbed to cancer a year prior and they were lonely, so I thought hey, I could visit Lou whenever I went to see gran. I thought that was better, but....”</p>
<p>“But?” Sherlock prompted carefully. </p>
<p>John’s eyes fell shut. “Before I got to negotiating it myself, my father gave her away to complete strangers.” A lie, but a one that didn’t bring forth waves of shock and repulsion should Sherlock know the whole truth. He probably smelled the bullshit, but refrained from commenting on it. “Jerry was gone about a year and a half later. An accident in the woods, a hunter thought he didn’t have a collar, but he did, and shot him on accident.” Another lie, but John wasn’t home that day, so he doesn’t know the full truth of it either. “And Jasmine, she was put down last year. I was in Toronto at the time. She had health complications and the vet suggested it’d be better and cheaper for us to let her go. So they did. I was told after I came home for Christmas break.”</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered, hugging John tighter around the waist. “It must’ve been horrible to find out when….”</p>
<p>“I pushed through,” John shrugged, desperate to minimise the impact the memories could have on him. He exhaled and then sat up, careful not to disturb Grace lying next to them. “I like to think they’re better off now.”</p>
<p>Sherlock didn’t reply, but he didn’t give John any overly pitying looks either, which he was glad for. A glint of sadness remained in his gaze, however, so John thought it better to change the topic entirely. “Alright, enough trauma for today -- let’s talk about something nice.”</p>
<p>“What do you suggest?”</p>
<p>“I dunno. Ever watched sunrise like this before?”</p>
<p>Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards. “You’re cheesy. But no. I never bothered to get up early in England, but I watched a fair number of sunsets. Same applies to Toronto.”</p>
<p>“Seriously? This is your first sunrise?”</p>
<p>“I hate to repeat myself,” Sherlock smirked provocatively.</p>
<p>John deadpanned and stuck his tongue out at him. “Dick. I’m happy to provide you a first time experience, then. Enjoying your view?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s head dipped, lashes feathering as he looked John over, then at the sunlight which delicately illuminated his profile. His eyes sparkled in beatific shades of azure and sated green of the forest, not completely unlike those off in the distance. How did John ever manage to catch Sherlock’s eye? He sat on a whole new level of pretty that John was aware of. </p>
<p>“You’re staring,” Sherlock said, amused, gaze focused onwards. John hummed. </p>
<p>“Yeah, you’re a much better sight than a sunrise,” he said, relishing the blush that crept up Sherlock’s neck and settled on his cheekbones. His thin fingers tugged at the grass next to the blanket they were comfortably perched on. There weren’t many things that left Sherlock speechless, but John figured that firing off compliments and unexpected romantic nonsense fulfilled the deal nicely. </p>
<p>“You yourself are quite the sight to behold,” Sherlock told him, his gaze dreamy when he looked at John. </p>
<p>“I bet it’s the hair. It’s amazing in summer,” John ran a hand through it like a diva that possessed golden locks reaching down to her waist. Except he was some poor cousin of hers who had to sell them to be able to buy instant soup till the end of the month.</p>
<p>“And the tan.”</p>
<p>“And the charm.”</p>
<p>“Don’t forget modesty,” Sherlock deadpanned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he scooted closer. Redbeard rolled over on his back and exposed his belly to be rubbed, so John obliged him and massaged slow circles in his fur. </p>
<p>Sherlock leaned in for a kiss but John dodged his mouth and planted a kiss on his temple instead. At his affronted pout, John said, “I’m serious, Holmes. Wash your face from dog germs and then you can ravish me all you want.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take your word for it,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms. He could pretend that he sulked, but that defense crumbled the moment John’s clever fingers landed on Sherlock’s sides and tickled him again, just to torture him. “Jawn! No! You’re vicious!”</p>
<p>Grace, apparently, had enough of their antics and barked at them to be quieter and enjoy the sunrise or cut it out. “Sorry. Can’t resist. I discovered your weakness, I’ve got to take advantage of it sometimes.”</p>
<p>“Unfair,” Sherlock glared, reluctantly letting John to hug him from behind. Back pressed to chest, and John rested his chin atop Sherlock’s right shoulder. Both of them bathed in the warm, enveloping sun rays that shone orange and yellow tones on their skins. John’s indeed tanned already, he tends to tan in the first two weeks of July. Sherlock’s complexion was much more delicate, though, and he had to put on sunscreen frequently. “I have yet to discover some bodily weakness of yours.”</p>
<p>“You could always use your power to call upon Greg and ask him,” John suggested, letting Sherlock shift in his arms so that he sat sideways, his right leg hooked over John’s. </p>
<p>Unexpectedly, Sherlock rocked into John’s embrace, toppling them over and he ended up sprawled over John, hands propping him up on either side of his shoulders. He smirked victoriously and dipped his head lower, whispering next to John’s ear, the rumble of Sherlock’s baritone shaking up John’s whole being. </p>
<p>“I’d rather find out what makes <em>you </em>tick and fall apart myself, thank you very much.”</p>
<p>“Jesus. You blush when I compliment you and then you spit this out?”</p>
<p>“It’s an experiment.”</p>
<p>“Of what?”</p>
<p>“You, essentially,” Sherlock purred, mouthing the outline of John’s ear, sending shivers down his spine. </p>
<p>John pressed his nose to Sherlock’s curls, enjoying the closeness. “Okay. But we agreed you have to ask for my consent in your experiments.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t forget.” John let his hands roam along the length of Sherlock’s back. “I just assumed you’d be on board.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah? Still, ask,” John teased. </p>
<p>Sherlock sat up, hands on hips as he regarded John with an inscrutable expression of a very serious chemist who got interrupted conducting a Very Serious™ experiment. “John Watson,” Sherlock declared in his most British voice, “will you, oh my dearest of Canadians, allow me to conduct an experiment in sensuality on you?”</p>
<p>“Sure, mate,” John said back to him, mimicking a British accent. Redbeard jumped on him then, distracting him long enough for Sherlock to dig out their tupperware from his backpack. The sun rose steadily above the horizon. “Hello, Red. Who’s a good puppy? You are! Yes, you!”</p>
<p>John avoided getting his face licked by the dogs, wary of the fact that they had been vaccinated only yesterday. Honestly, Sherlock could be reckless, but this took a new spin on it. Not that John was mad, just… flabbergasted. He’s holding onto his promise to wait until Sherlock washes his face. No dog saliva for him, thank you very much. </p>
<p>“Sherlock, can you give me the tea we packed? It’s getting hotter,” John grumbled, rolling up the sleeves of his yellow shirt, exposing his forearms. As he turned to get it from Sherlock something sticky smudged across his cheek and chin. “What --”</p>
<p>“Peanut butter jelly time!” Sherlock announced enthusiastically, picking up Redbeard from John’s lap and up to his face so the puppy could start licking it off in earnest. </p>
<p>“Hey! Why?” John tried to duck, but Sherlock straddled his lap and pinned him to place. Even Grace stood up at the commotion and came sniffing what goodies are available. Sherlock let her lick his fingers clean from the peanut butter and jelly he scraped off of a sandwich. </p>
<p>“Redbeard loves you,” Sherlock said smugly, the puppy a writhing ball of excitement and waggy tail and he licked the last traces of peanut butter from John’s chin.</p>
<p><em>Yes, but I also love you</em>, John thought to himself, cocking an eyebrow at his madman. <em>And I hope you love me.</em></p>
<p>“Here, a napkin.” John blinked at the white tissue Sherlock dangled in front of him, the edge soaked in clear water he then poured in his palm to let Grace and her puppy have a drink. John wiped his face, but the lingering stickiness remained. He needed a shower, just like Sherlock needed a proper face scrub. </p>
<p>“You spilled water on the blanket,” John said, frowning at the dark circle between them. Redbeard bumped into Sherlock’s elbow and the water went flying, causing Sherlock’s trousers and John’s shirt to get soaked. “Great. How about we pack up and head back? I’m not sitting on the wet spot, sunrise or not.”</p>
<p>“It’s just water,” Sherlock argued, but rose all the same. Redbeard sniffed at the mysterious damp circle on the blanket. </p>
<p>“Yeah, but it’s uncomfortable. I have an idea, though.”</p>
<p>“Intriguing, what else?”</p>
<p>John playfully shoved Sherlock and stepped on the grass to shake the blanket off of any insect, bug, or other particle that may have stuck to it. Sherlock stood by, Redbeard’s leash hanging from his wrist like a bracelet. Grace sniffed around John while he packed, getting a pat on the head as she passed.</p>
<p>“Wait, stop!” Sherlock shouted suddenly as John was about to fall into step next to him. Even the dogs halted, alarmed, and Sherlock crouched, palm outstretched to a dandelion John planned to avoid. </p>
<p>“What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“A bumblebee, John!” </p>
<p>“Bumblebee?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I hate to repeat myself. Look!” John looked, crouching next to Sherlock. And indeed -- a small, fuzzy, stocky-bodied insect that Sherlock identified as a bumblebee crawled on his hand. </p>
<p>“It’s cute. Aren’t you worried it will sting you?”</p>
<p>Sherlock shook his head and helped the bumblebee climb onto the dandelion. “No. They’re not aggressive without prompt. Did you know they scent-mark flowers that they have already visited? They also won’t die if they sting, their stinger is smooth and as such bumblebees can sting more than once.”</p>
<p>“That sure as hell made me worry less,” John said, observing Sherlock’s profile as he studied the bee pollinating. That primary focus, sharpness of mind -- all centered onto a singular being, in this case the bumblebee present below. It almost seemed that Sherlock wanted to speak at some point, but decided against it, even though John could see bits and pieces of his internal struggles whether to blurt out whatever he saw, thought of, or noted, or stay silent. How many times were Sherlock’s interests pushed aside and dismissed as irrelevant?</p>
<p>“Hey,” John brushed his hand over Sherlock’s nape. “You mentioned the other day you find bees fascinating. Any other fun facts?”</p>
<p>Sherlock tilted his head, holding Redbeard back when he came too close to the bee, eager to investigate the newly discovered form of life. “I haven’t looked bees up for a long time, but if my memory serves right, I believe that they live in smaller groups. They don’t tend to swarm like honeybees.”</p>
<p>“So if we ever anger bumblebees they won’t murder us in our sleep?” John joked.</p>
<p>Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Honestly, John. I doubt bumblebees would be walking free if they had homicidal tendencies.” They exchanged glances and managed to stay dead silent for five seconds before bursting out in a fit of giggles. The bumblebee took off in a buzz of its own, away from the loud humans and curious canines. </p>
<p>“Alright, Bumble, let’s go home,” John said after he was done laughing. He helped Sherlock get up, neither of them letting go of the other. </p>
<p>“<em>Bumble</em>?”</p>
<p>John gave a shrug. “Your curls remind me of that bumblebee, kind of. And it was cute. Too sappy?”</p>
<p>“A little,” Sherlock admitted, but his timid smile showed that he didn’t find it <em>that</em> sappy. Good. It fit. “I don’t mind it.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>By the time they got back from their impromptu morning walk, Redbeard was thoroughly exhausted and slumping on his tiny paws while Grace strolled leisurely next to John. Sherlock carried the puppy in his arms and up to the porch where he put Redbeard down and in they went, the former taking the duty of filling the dogs’ bowls with fresh tap water at which they lapped the moment he set it on the floor. </p>
<p>John himself poured himself a glass, following Sherlock out to the corridor. He stepped over the cardboard that prevented Redbeard from dashing around the house and peeing on the carpet and shrugged off his shirt. Sherlock disappeared up in the attic, probably to change his clothes, so John wandered into his room and gathered his dirty clothes to throw them into a hamper and have a quick shower. It was after six and already hot as balls. He couldn’t wait for autumn, he loved that season. </p>
<p>After enduring a cold spray underneath the showerhead and dressing in fresh clothes, he left the bathroom door open so that the moisture wouldn’t stick to the walls and added his towel to the growing pile that would go into the washing machine. John rearranged shampoos sitting atop the sink according to their height. </p>
<p>“Hello, Sherlock,” he grinned at his boyfriend’s reflection in the mirror. Sherlock’s figure leaned against the doorframe, gaze distant but roaming over  John’s. Good thing he put on his shorts. “I’m done here, you can have a shower if you like.”</p>
<p>“No need, I’ll just wash my face,” Sherlock said in a bored voice. John fished out a fresh towel from a cupboard and tossed it to Sherlock as he walked out, winking. </p>
<p>“Should I make coffee?”</p>
<p>“Please. Black --”</p>
<p>“Four sugars, I know.”</p>
<p>Five minutes later Sherlock trotted downstairs, curls bouncing on his head like small dark springs. John has just poured coffee in their mugs, smiling when long arms wound around his waist as Sherlock leaned against him. This comfortable domesticity was something he lived for. John turned around in their embrace, hopping up on the counter so that he and Sherlock were approximately the same height. </p>
<p>John pulled Sherlock into a promised kiss, lips parting and closing slowly, their chests pressing together to relish the physical closeness. A delightful squeal left Sherlock’s mouth when John nibbled at his lower lip, his grip on John’s waist tightening. John trailed kisses along the outline of Sherlock’s jaw and down his neck, thumb caressing his cheek. </p>
<p>“Fucking hell!” John and Sherlock broke apart, breathless and startled like deer in headlights. “Jesus Christ on a popsicle I hate this shit so fucking much!”</p>
<p>John slid off the kitchen counter, shooting his debauched Sherlock an apologising look before peeking out into the hallway. “Greg? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Nothin’,” was the muffled answer. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose up and they both went to investigate the commotion. </p>
<p>Inside the museum, Greg stood in its middle, head hanging low. At his feet lay a mixture of fake plastic fur, ragged clothes, and immeasurable quantities of glue and glitter. Greg turned around upon hearing the floorboards creak, tired black circles underlining his dark brown eyes. John winced at the sight of his uncle holding a glue gun that had apparently gone rogue and spilled all over his t-shirt. </p>
<p>“Doesn’t it burn?” Sherlock asked, appalled by the scene. </p>
<p>“Pain is a concept of subjectivity,” Greg husked, throwing the glue gun on the floor. John and Sherlock exchanged unsure glances. His grunkle paid them no mind, fanning his face using a stack of papers nearby. “Since when are you up so early?”</p>
<p>“We walked the dogs,” John explained, eyeing Greg’s new failed abomination. But wasn’t that the goal with these exhibits?</p>
<p>“Cool, where did you go?”</p>
<p>“Meadow south of here. Caught the sunrise too.”</p>
<p>Greg nodded. “Yeah, that part gets the nicest views. How’s Grace and Redbeard?”</p>
<p>“Redbeard is sleeping off the walk,” Sherlock said, coming closer to the furry cadaver of Greg’s tormented imagination. “What on Earth are you doing? This isn’t even Darwinism anymore. It’s just abhorrent.”</p>
<p>“Sherlock.” John’s boyfriend looked up at the professional conman with bags under his eyes bigger than lake Michigan. “Do I look like I know the answer myself? Or that I care?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s brows furrowed before hitching up. “I suppose not.”</p>
<p>“Exactly. Now <em>shh</em>, I need coffee to pretend I can function like a social human being.”</p>
<p>And with that, Greg left the museum for the kitchen where he greeted the dogs much more enthusiastically than any person after waking up had business doing. Sherlock had the expression of someone who just witnessed an inexplicable event of surreality, too fast to comprehend. Or he just gave up to figure out what Greg was on most of the time. </p>
<p>“Don’t question it,” John told him, huffing a laugh. “Greg just… exists like that. He’s the Mystery Man for a reason.”</p>
<p>“Dull, but I concede your point,” Sherlock’s shoulders rose and fell.</p>
<p>John toed up to him and considered the sorry excuse of a future Mystery Shack attraction before them. In the kitchen, Greg was talking to Grace in hushed tones. The entire household took to the dogs immediately, and the animals to them, as though they always belonged here. Now they do, forever. </p>
<p>“I’ve got an idea,” John said. “How about we grab the journal, Greg’s car, and disappear for half a day and have an adventure of our own? Just the two of us?”</p>
<p>The speed at which Sherlock turned him around and thoroughly kissed him again left him speechless. “Oh, yes! You’re a genius, John!”</p>
<p>“So you say. But we still haven’t had breakfast.”</p>
<p>“We had peanut butter sandwiches.”</p>
<p>“That was like an hour ago and you gave half to Redbeard. We’re eating first.”</p>
<p>Sherlock pouted. “There you are being tedious again.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean <em>again</em>? Someone has to keep you fed, London Boy.”</p>
<p>“My body is mostly just transport, John,” he said, sighing as if this was the most ridiculous debate in the history of speaking. </p>
<p>“Huh? Don’t tell me you think eating is boring.” John looked Sherlock up head to toes, concern wrinkling his forehead. </p>
<p>“No, I enjoy it. I’m just saying that the body can go on for longer periods of time without eating. It’s quite handy to train yourself out of it before exam time.”</p>
<p>John squinted up at him. “You’re serious? Oh God, you are! Did you seriously starve during exams?”</p>
<p>“No-o-o.” Sherlock hugged John, arms around his neck. “I didn’t starve. I was only very economical when it came to consuming the takeaway Irene ordered for us.”</p>
<p>“If this was supposed to placate me, it didn’t,” John grumbled, cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands. He fixed him a worried, stern glare. “Sherlock, that’s not healthy.”</p>
<p>“I lived, didn’t I? And I am eating, still.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes you skip a meal,” John argued, ushering him back in the corridor and towards the kitchen. He could vividly imagine Sherlock’s eye roll. “I saw that, shut up.”</p>
<p>“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, John.”</p>
<p>The smugness in Sherlock’s voice betrayed him. “Smartass. C’mon. We’re having breakfast and you’ll eat what I put in front of you, understand?”</p>
<p>“I’ll do it only because you promised me a mystery adventure later, Watson.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>John's doggos were inspired by my very own doggies. We still have Jas, but Jerry Lee and Lou passed. This is a sort of memoriam to them, they're chasing squirrels in Dog Heaven now &lt;3 also, the things JOhn said are ture as well, I got Lou tiny as a bean, nose pink and all, and Jerry was the most gentle soul out there. Fluffy bois<br/>Here is Jerry Lee:<br/><br/>And here's Lou as the tiny bean she was :)<br/></p>
<p>updated: 5.5. 2021<br/>words: 5423<br/>Thank you all for reading and I wish you all a nice day/night wherever you are<br/>Take care,</p>
<p>-Vee</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tumblr of Bee, my bestie, who does our fanart:<a href="https://jasombee.tumblr.com/">jasombee</a><br/>My humble tumblr:<a href="https://majesticnerdyvee.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdyvee</a> or: <a href="https://majesticnerdynerd.tumblr.com/">majesticnerdynerd</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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